


Find your happiness

by Anathema Device (notowned)



Series: Lead me to your door [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Gen, M/M, Mainly angst, No Explicit Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-07
Updated: 2016-11-07
Packaged: 2018-08-29 15:51:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 35,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8496151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notowned/pseuds/Anathema%20Device
Summary: Athos has been with the Musketeers five years, when the woman he loved above all others, comes back into his life. But that only makes things harder. The arrival of a brave, sparky young Gascon shakes things up even more.A retelling of Season 1 as affected by the events in the previous story in the series





	1. Chapter 1

_How utterly ironic_. Ten years ago Athos had saved the love of his life from hanging for a killing she _had_ committed, and tomorrow he would die for four murders he had _not_ committed and of which he knew nothing. He had many regrets, but the biggest was that he hadn’t taken Anne up on her offer to run away with her, that he would die without ever laying eyes on her again, tasting her lips, or hearing her speak in her lovely voice as they made love. He missed her so much that he dreamed sometimes he could smell her perfume. Jasmine. It would always be her scent to him.

The priest had come to pray, but Athos had dismissed him. He had missed Sunday mass too many times to count, had killed in the king’s name, not God’s, and committed sundry sins of taking the Lord’s name in vain, but he no longer believed in a god, and refused to participate in a ritual to appease one. If he was proved wrong, at least he would have Thomas for company.

He was so tired, bruised from rough handling, miserable at leaving Aramis and Porthos behind. All he wanted now was to get it over and done with. Then he could rest.

**********************

Athos wasn’t sure whether irritation or relief was paramount in those first moments after Aramis halted the execution. But as his brothers embraced him, relief and gratitude won out. “Thank you,” he whispered to them. Somehow he would have to make saving him worth it.

D’Artagnan, the young man who had burst so spectacularly into his life the day before, hung around the stairs, waiting for them. “He was a great help,” Aramis murmured to Athos. “You’d be dead without him.”

Athos nodded gratefully to d’Artagnan as they left they execution yard. Dear Christ, the boy was lovely. So young and so brave, so full of life. He made Athos feel eighty years old.

D’Artagnan trailed after the Musketeers. “Now what will you do?” Aramis asked him, because Athos was too worn out to care.

“I don’t know. Return to Gascony, I suppose.”

“And be a farmer like he was? Nonsense. You were born to be a soldier.”

“We could have a word with Treville,” Porthos said. “What do you think, Athos?”

Athos roused himself. “Er, yes. If the boy wants. He has a duty to his farm and family, after all.”

“Yes, but _after_ that,” Aramis said. “Would you sponsor him?”

“Me? I’m not fit to.”

“I’d like it if you did,” d’Artagnan, a little shyly. “I hear you’re the best.”

“Then you hear wrong. Porthos is the best of us. Or is it Aramis? I can never remember.”

Aramis raised an eyebrow. “Remind me to remind you of these words next time you are expostulating over my sins.”

“I never expostulate. I merely tell you to change your ways. To no effect, I note.”

“Athos is the finest swordsman in all France,” Aramis said after sending Athos a quelling look. “And an excellent shot. He can also beat Porthos at hand to hand, if Porthos is having a bad day.”

“Careful. I might faint at all the praise.” Athos felt like he might faint anyway. “Have we missed muster?”

“Athos, you were almost executed,” Aramis said, hands on his hips. “Porthos and I and this boy have ridden all night to save you. Do you think I give a sodding fuck about the muster?”

“Language,” Athos said, smiling a little.

“Sod language. I’ll tell Treville we’re going to bed. You are too, my friend. You look unstable.”

“I feel somewhat unstable.” He wiped his face with his hand. “D’Artagnan, go with Aramis and see what he says. For myself, I will have to speak to you later. Perhaps this evening.”

“That’s fine,” Aramis said, clapping Athos on the shoulder. “Porthos, take him home. D’Artagnan, come with me.”

“Who died and made you lieutenant?” Porthos grumbled.

“No one, fortunately. Athos, I’ll call by your lodgings later.”

Porthos walked with Athos, not quite holding him up but nudging him gently when he sensed him listing. “Was it bad?” Porthos asked.

“I’ve had better nights.”

“I bet. Dunno what we’d have done if we’d been too late. Don’t like to think of it.”

At his doorstep, Athos turned to his friend. “Did I mention that I am forever in your and Aramis’s debt? I hope never to have to repay the favour, if only because I wouldn’t wish it on anyone but my worst enemy. Enemies,” he amended. Musketeers tended to collect grudges against them.

Porthos grinned. “I hear you. Get some sleep.” He hugged Athos, and Athos let his big friend’s generous warmth ease the aches and weariness a little. “See you this evening.”

Athos waved him off, then climbed unsteadily to his room. He desperately wanted a drink, but he was out of wine, and he had no energy to go out to find more. Instead he stripped, almost wishing he could burn his leathers and clothes which stank of the prison, then fell on his bed. He knew no more until the clocks rang four in the afternoon.

**********************

To Athos’s surprise, D’Artagnan joined them at the tavern. “The captain said we could give him a chance,” Aramis explained.

Athos tilted his head at the boy, who flushed. “We have a manager on the farm. There’s nothing useful I can do. Papa is buried already, I have no other close family, and I want more than that life.”

“You might find you have more life if you go home,” Athos said. “Longevity isn’t a Musketeer tradition.”

“Unless you’re Serge, or Treville, or—”

Athos held up his hand to shut Aramis up. “My point is that it’s dangerous.”

“I’d rather that than death by boredom,” d’Artagnan said.

“Up to you.” Athos rose. “I want some time alone to think. Anyone mind?” When no one did, he took his bottle and cup to a seat by a wall some distance away from them, where he could watch and be reassured by their presence, but not have to use his limited social skills entertaining a stripling. However pretty the stripling was to look at.

Strange how the rescue from certain death had depressed him. It had been freeing, in a way, to know all his guilt and anguish and regrets would end with his mortal body’s death. Now he had to face them all over again and he wasn’t sure he had the desire to, any longer. Still, unless he killed himself—which he would not do—he had to keep going. Which meant finding a purpose in life more alluring than sleepwalking through each day.

D’Artagnan might offer that purpose, but somehow Athos doubted the lad would stick at it. There was precious little glamour attached to being a Musketeer—although Aramis did his charming best to make it seem as if there was, at least to his ladies—and a lot of tedium, punctuated by brief bursts of murderous violence. Their king was not a man who inspired much loyalty, though the Crown was important and had to be protected. They all adored the Queen, but guarding her still meant a lot of standing around holding one’s bladder. And the cardinal hated the Musketeers with a venom Athos found hard to understand in such a cold-blooded and practical man.

He sighed. He saw Aramis bid farewell to the others, then d’Artagnan rose and left with a nod and smile to Athos. Only Porthos remained. Athos came over. “You don’t need to wait for me, my friend. I don’t plan to spend any more time worshipping Dionysus. Drinking,” he added at Porthos’s confused look.

“Thought you might like the company anyway.”

“Thank you, but my thoughts are too dark and dull to inflict on anyone. What do you make of the lad?”

“Good swordsman. Impulsive. Ladies like him.” Porthos grinned. “Reminds me of you.”

“Me?”

“Yeah. A lost soul needing a friend and a strong hand, like you did.”

Athos smiled. “I got the strong hand at least. My knee still aches, you realise.”

“Captain told me not to go easy on you.”

“And you did not. Go home, Porthos. I’ll be all right.”

The big man stood and peered into Athos’s eyes. “Not yet. But soon, I reckon. Good night.”

Athos nodded in acknowledgement. He returned to swallow the last half cup of wine, then put on his hat, checked his weapons, and walked out into the freezing night. The cold did a little to dampen the usual stench of the Paris streets, but he was well used to breathing through his mouth as he navigated ice and slime and the contents of freshly emptied chamber pots, not to mention freshly emptied stomachs. At least he wasn’t adding to that mess tonight.

But over it all came a whiff of that sweet scent that haunted him even in his dreams. If he were the King, he would make jasmine perfume illegal, just to be free of the memories the smell evoked. He was tired of flinching at shadows because of it.

“Olivier?”

He froze.

“Oliver? It is you?”

He turned around and drew his pistol. “Who is it? Show yourself.”

A woman emerged from the shadows. “Would you really shoot me, Olivier?”

“Anne!” He holstered the gun, and swept her up into his arms. She kissed him and he savoured her lips, wondering at the miracle that brought her back to him. “What are you doing here? Are you real?” In the dim light, she shimmered in expensive silk and diamonds, her eyes huge and dark and beautiful.

“Real as you are, my darling. The question is, what are _you_ doing here?”

“Running away. My God, Anne, I thought I would never see you again. Have you found accommodation? Do you need somewhere to stay?”

She smiled. “Yes, and no. Do you want to come back to my chambers? We have much to talk about.”

“Yes, anything. So long as you don’t leave me again. Oh Anne, I made such a mistake not leaving with you.”

“Come and talk to me, love. This way.”

She led him to a more salubrious part of the city, not far from the palace, and away from the stink of the Seine. He recognised the street as one in whose houses and apartments, visiting dignitaries and foreign ambassadors resided from time to time. And, thanks to Aramis, Athos knew that at least one of Richelieu’s mistresses was a resident as well. “You live here? How?”

“All in good time, Olivier.”

She led him up two flights of stairs, and opened a door to a spacious, clean apartment. “Now we’re private. A glass of wine?”

“No, just you. I need to drink you in.”

Smiling, she turned and came into his arms again so he could kiss her hungrily and let his hands reassure him she was real, not a dream. “I have missed you so very much.”

“As I missed you. But sit, darling.” She began lighting candles so they could see each other properly. “Tell me why you left La Fère?”

“Catherine decided I wasn’t man enough to father her child, so while I was at war for the king, she slept with Rénard and became pregnant. I hear she had a son.”

Anne frowned. “Then why not throw her out? Send her back to her parents.”

“Because I would still be unable to marry, while stuck in a big house I didn’t need, running an estate for heirs I would never have. So I let her have it, and I came to Paris. I joined the Musketeers five years ago.”

“Do you know one called Athos?”

“ _I_ am Athos, Anne. I took—” He leapt up and caught her before she could fall. “Anne! Are you ill?” He helped her to a chair. She had gone sickly white. “Darling, speak to me.”

“Water,” she whispered. “Or wine.”

He filled a glass with the first bottle he saw open and brought it to her, helped her to drink. “What’s wrong?”

She shook her head. He knelt by her chair and stroked her hand until her colour returned. “What have I done?” she murmured.

“I don’t know. What have you done?”

“Nearly killed you, that’s what.”

He sat back on his heels. “Would you care to explain?”

“I work for Richelieu—”

“What? Anne!”

“Hush, darling. It’s a long story. I spy for him, for France.”

“He is not France, whatever he thinks.”

“Yes, yes. But I do work for him now. I have done for two months, since I...returned from England.”

“But why—” She put a finger on his lips. “Sorry. Continue.”

“That’s another story. Richelieu is determined to destroy the Musketeers, did you realise?”

Athos raised an eyebrow. “We caught a hint here or there, yes.”

“Ah, yes. He....” She reached for his hand and held it. “He asked me to find out the weaknesses. Where to attack. I made enquiries and was told that the death of Treville or his lieutenant should do it. I passed that on. I had no idea his lieutenant was...you.”

“Did you arrange for the killings?”

“What? No! He left that to his Red Guard thugs. But this morning Richelieu was in a foul temper with me and everyone around him because Athos had escaped. I offered commiserations.” She lifted his hand and rested her cheek on it. “Had I known who he had entangled, I’d have killed him myself to save you. I'm so sorry, my love.”

“No harm done,” he said lightly. “Except for the death of some unfortunate civilians whose lives Richelieu deemed worthy of ending over his vendetta. Would you testify to the king over this? It would end Richelieu’s influence, or at least curtail it.”

She pulled her hand away. “No, I can’t. I’d be dead before I finished forming the thought. He killed that guard, Dujon, the one who gave evidence about Gaudet. Richelieu poisoned him. He doesn’t leave trails to him. He would kill me just for knowing about it if he thought I wasn’t loyal. Olivier, you can’t tell anyone you know me.”

“But we can be together now. At least here in Paris. I can’t marry you, but you surely don’t care about that?”

She pulled her silk shawl around her tightly. “No. But I don’t want to die. If he knew that I knew you...if he knew how we are connected, about Thomas...he’d kill me within a day. Half a day. Promise me.”

“So I may not even see you? Even now?”

“If you're discreet.” Her eyes filled with tears. “Must I lose you again, Olivier?”

“No. I won’t tell a soul, I swear. But I must have you, Anne. I’ve lost everyone, everything else.”

“So have I.”

He rose and lifted her to her feet. “You have me. As long as you want me, and longer. I was such a fool to let you go. I was such a fool not to marry you, send Thomas away, let my father handle the issue of inheritance without me. What did my obedience gain me? A faithless wife, a bastard, and the mockery of all who know about the situation.”

“Now you have me.”

“Now I have you,” he murmured, nuzzling at her neck. “And I will never let anything or anyone come between us again.”

**********************

They made love, frantically at first, then slowly, sweetly. When they had exhausted themselves, he held while she told the story of how she’d come to be in Paris. She told him she had gone to England and attracted the attention of wealthy men on account of her looks and bold nature. “I'm ashamed to say I let them pay me for my company.”

“There is no shame in it, my love,” he said. “I left you precious little choice.”

“No. But one of them became besotted, and asked to marry me. I cared nothing for him, because no man would ever exceed you in my eyes, but I had to live, so I agreed. He was old, and fat, and rather stupid. Less than a year later he died, and left me a fortune. I sought no other husband, but still the men tried for my hand. This time I could be a little more discriminating, and when a young, pretty gentleman asked for my hand, I let him have it. We were passably happy for nearly three years, though his father hated me. John was the heir to the estate—does this sound familiar?”

He stroked her hair. “Sadly, yes.”

“Indeed. The father had been making enquiries since our marriage, and unfortunately, his agents managed to find Pinon, and Catherine. John’s father presented the report to his son, demanded I be arrested or thrown off the estate. So I ran all the way back to Paris, where a sequence of events involving powerful men and my liaisons with them brought me to the attention of the cardinal. He offered me a choice—work for him, or be whipped as a whore.”

“How charming,” Athos said, no longer shocked by such matters as he once might have been. “I think working as a whore would be less morally repugnant.”

“Perhaps, but less lucrative, and a lot harder on my back, if you see what I mean.”

“He’ll keep using you to try and destroy the Musketeers, you realise.”

“I know. But if I warn you, you can find a way to frustrate his plans without revealing me?”

“I will do that, certainly. We’re not innocents, Anne. We can fight. If it comes to it, we can fight his men rather than reveal your secret.”

She kissed him gratefully. “When he loses interest in me, if I become less useful, he might let me leave. Would you come with me?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll work towards that. This is my dream come true, Olivier.”

“And mine.” He held her hand. “Now, one of us has an early start in the morning. But I’ll return in the evening, if I can. How can I contact you?”

“At the garrison is the safest way.”

“Then I’ll send a message. Wait for it. I may not always be at liberty. I’m not my own woman as yet.”

“You will be. Until then, do what you have to. I won’t judge you, my love.”

“Thank you. Now sleep and know I am with you.”

No sweeter words could send him to his rest than those. “What name do you use now?” he asked sleepily.

“Milady de Winter. The English title seems to arouse some of the men I have to entertain. I have no idea why.”

“It implies vice and illicit sexual activities, I suspect.”

“Then it implies correctly.”

“Anne.”

“You don’t sound shocked.”

“I’m no longer a callow youth, darling. I fancy I might even teach you a thing or two.”

She smiled against his neck. “Well then, Olivier, I might hold you to that one day.”

**********************

Never had it been harder to leave a bed than on that morning, but he kissed Anne goodbye in the knowledge that they would see each other again soon, and that the love he thought had lost, had come back to him. Cardinal or no cardinal, Athos would not let anyone part them again, even if he had to kill Richelieu himself. Hopefully, it wouldn’t come to that, however pleasurable it was to contemplate it, especially after what had happened the day before.

He found Aramis and Porthos having breakfast, and joined them. “Good God,” Aramis said. “You were with a woman last night.”

Athos paused in the act of sitting down. “And why would you say that?” he said calmly, internally cursing Aramis’s unerring nose for sexual activity.

“Your neck,” Porthos said. Athos clapped his hand to it, flushing hot. If even Porthos had noticed....

Aramis grinned. “You need to retie your scarf. I notice you don’t deny it.”

“I notice that it’s none of your business.” Serge set a bowl of porridge in front of Athos which gave him a few moments’ cover.

“You with a woman? It’s a wonder the palace hasn’t put out a communiqué.”

“You have no idea who and when I sleep with, Aramis. You are entirely consumed with your own affairs.”

“You wound me, Athos.”

“Given half a chance. Where’s the boy? He surely knows he has to attend muster.”

“He’ll be here,” Porthos said. “He’s keen.”

Sure enough, minutes later d’Artagnan turned up, looking ill-rested but determined. “Am I late?”

“Yeah, and Treville told us to kick you out,” Porthos said straight-faced. D’Artagnan’s expression fell. “Only kidding. Sit down and eat.”

“Is that allowed?”

“If not, we’ll recover the food from you later,” Athos said, as straight-faced as Porthos had been.

“Now I know you had sex last night,” Aramis said. “It’s far too early for you to have a sense of humour.”

Athos ignored his jest and continued eating his meal. Serge spotted the boy and brought him a bowl of porridge. But before he tasted it, d’Artagnan sniffed the air. “Why can I smell jasmine?”

Athos stiffened. “Why do you ask?” Aramis said.

“That woman, the one I told you about. She wore it.” He leaned over and sniffed at Athos. “You reek of it.”

“And what does this mystery woman look like?” Aramis asked d'Artagnan. “Apart from being beautiful, which you already told us.”

“Dark hair, green eyes. Pale, lovely skin. And the most perfect—” He stopped and flushed.

“Perfect?” Aramis asked, eyes twinkling.

“Ankles,” d’Artagnan said firmly, hiding his face behind his bowl and spoon.

“This is the woman who killed that bloke at the inn,” Porthos said.

“Yes. And framed me for his murder.”

Athos pushed his bowl away and stood. “Tell Treville I’ll be back in half an hour.” He put his hat on his head and walked away, ignoring Aramis’s cry of surprise.

Surely d’Artagnan could not mean Anne. Surely not.

He banged on her apartment’s door. When she opened it, she dragged him inside and slammed the door behind him. “I told you not to come here without warning, Olivier. What’s wrong?”

“Where were you three nights ago, Anne?”

“Why do you want to know? I told you, my life is not my own.”

“Just answer the question, I beg you.”

She folded her arms. “I was returning to Paris. I stayed at an inn just outside the city.”

“Alone?”

“No.” She pulled away from him. “What’s this about, Olivier?”

“Three nights ago, a Spaniard was murdered. The killer framed a young man called d’Artagnan for the crime.”

Her expression didn’t change. “And what has this to do with me?”

“When d’Artagnan was at the inn, he was on his way to find me, the man who he believed killed his father, because his father’s killer called himself ‘Athos’. As we now know, the killer’s real name was Gaudet. D’Artagnan is now a Musketeer cadet. Naturally the woman who tried to pin a murder on d’Artagnan after spending the night making love to him, made something of an impression on the lad.” Athos stepped closer to her. “Dark hair, green eyes. Pale, lovely skin. Perfect...ankles. And wearing a rather distinctive jasmine perfume. One just like the one I smell of this morning. Do I have to go on?”

She backed away again. “You think I killed the Spaniard.”

“Did you?”

She lifted her chin. “Yes. And I framed d’Artagnan for it, so I could get away.”

“In God’s name, Anne, why? You said you didn’t kill those innocent people!”

“Mendoza was a Spanish spy, not an innocent. I had to retrieve documents he was carrying and cover my tracks. I told you what I do for a living.”

“You said you were a spy, not a killer.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I thought you said you weren’t a callow young man any more, Olivier. Spying involves killing from time to time. How many men have you killed in the name of the king?”

“That’s not the same thing. I’m _not_ an assassin!”

She flicked her hand dismissively. “Assassin, musketeer, splitting hairs, and the result is the same. Someone’s dead at the end of it.”

He stared at her. “It’s not the same to me.”

“I thought you weren’t going to judge me.”

“I wasn’t. But do you expect me to just...overlook this?”

“Why not? We both serve the crown, after all.”

“ _I_ serve the crown. You serve the cardinal.”

“Who _is_ the crown in effect, if not in law.”

He held her by her shoulders. “You really don’t see the problem, do you? What happened to you, Anne? When did killing stop mattering to you? After Thomas?”

Her lips thinned to invisibility. “Did you enjoy throwing that at me after all these years?”

Athos held up his hands. “No. No, of course not. But I don’t understand how you can be so detached about it?”

“How long did it take you? How many deaths? One? Ten? A hundred? Because you have to have killed at least that many. You went to war. Did you sob yourself sick over each dead Huguenot?”

“Did you enjoy throwing _that_ at me, Anne?”

She pulled her robe around her. “Perhaps you should go. This is not the time or place for this discussion. What I do for the cardinal is what keeps me alive. That’s more of an excuse than you have.”

“You have no idea what keeps me alive, Anne. I thought I would live for you. I don’t know if I even know who you are any more.”

He turned to go to the door. She didn’t speak until he had his hand on the handle. “Will you let me show you? Would you bother to learn?”

“Yes. But I do have to go.” He looked back over his shoulder. “Stay safe, my love.”


	2. Chapter 2

Treville was unimpressed by his late arrival, but dismissed his apologies. “We don’t have time for that now. A man called Vadim has been arrested for treason and murder and is in the Chatelet awaiting execution. Three weeks ago he stole two dozen barrels of gunpowder which has not been recovered. The informant who led us to him doesn’t know where it is, and Vadim isn’t talking. Promises of a reprieve have been ineffective.”

“Hang him and the problem goes away, doesn’t it?” Even as he said it, Athos realised he was as callous regarding this man’s fate as he had accused Anne of being. _Hypocrite_. But at least he hadn’t tried to ruin an innocent man in the process.

“Unfortunately, no. He’s known to have followers, and they are very likely to carry out his plan even without him, the more so if we kill him. We have to find out what he’s planning, and stop him. He could bring down half of Paris with that amount of explosive.”

“So if killing him won’t stop him, and keeping him alive won’t, I believe that limits our options to torture or subterfuge.”

Treville grimaced. “He’s a fanatic. Torture won’t work on him, even if I thought it ever did, which it doesn’t. No, I have a better idea, and it might be the perfect task for our young Gascon. The only problem is...it could be the first and the last task he ever performs for us.”

Athos’s eyebrows rose to his hairline. “This is your _better_ idea?”

**********************

In the end, Treville’s plan worked, though not exactly how he’d envisaged, and if it hadn’t been for d’Artagnan’s foolhardy bravery, Vadim might have got away with it. The lad ended up badly battered and bruised, although of the four of them, only Aramis had escaped relatively unscathed. It was Aramis who had insisted the other three spend a night in the infirmary under his supervision, and although Athos had put up a token protest, he was sore enough that he let himself be overruled without a real fight. His hearing was affected, his head rang like a bell, and his back was black and blue.

Porthos, normally the most stoic of them, was staggering like a drunkard by the time they returned to the garrison, and Treville stopped him before he could attempt to climb the stairs to his office.

“Good work, gentlemen, d’Artagnan. You’ve earned your rest.”

“I hope I’ve earned a meal,” d’Artagnan muttered to Athos who was holding him upright. “I haven’t eaten in two days.”

“That, we can do something about,” Athos said, secretly horrified that the lad had endured all the rest of it and hunger on top of it. There was nothing to him. Fasting was not good for him.

But once they reached the infirmary and the injured told to lie down, the boy was asleep almost before he hit the bed. Aramis covered him up with a blanket. “I’ll watch him. Now strip, my friend, so I can see how badly damaged you are.”

“It’s nothing but bruising,” Athos said, waving him away.

“Then you have no reason not to show me then, do you?”

Knowing from experience that Aramis wouldn’t let this go, Athos took off his doublet and shirt, and let his friend poke away. “No broken ribs,” Aramis finally pronounced.

“I knew that. Now check Porthos, because he really is injured.”

“He’s also asleep and I know better than to wake him up. Rest is the best thing for the three of you.”

“D’Artagnan will need to eat when he wakes. The Chatelet isn’t known for the quality of its provisions.”

“My God, no, it’s not. I’ll see to it,” Aramis said, looking genuinely guilty. “But to bed with you now.”

“That line probably works better on your paramours,” Athos couldn’t resist saying.

Aramis regarded him with his head tilted back. “Ah yes, I’d forgotten your mysterious woman. I look forward to hearing more about her.”

“You look in vain. Go away, Aramis.”

It was, Athos was startled to realise, after dark. He had lost track of time, which wasn’t like him. Was it three days since he’d seen Anne last? She would be thinking he was angry with her. Which he wasn’t, not really. To tell the truth, he’d been too frantic about d’Artagnan and this plan to think too much of the moral conundrum she presented. He had to work it out. To leave things as they were would be intolerable, not after he’d found her again despite fearing her lost forever.

Still musing on the problem of Anne and her occupation, he fell asleep. He woke to the sound of someone having a nightmare, and another man soothing him with quiet murmurs. _Aramis_. Athos sat up and listened, and when Aramis failed to work his usual magic on the sick man, padded over. D’Artagnan strained against Aramis’s gentle hold on him, begging in mumbled, unintelligible words. “He won’t settle,” Aramis said as Athos came to his side.

“Let me try.”

Aramis’s eyebrows lifted in surprise, but he stood and let Athos take his place. Athos didn’t touch the boy, but used his voice. “D’Artagnan, you’re safe. Rest now.”

“Papa? I saw you. I thought you were dead.” Then more gibberish.

Athos repeated what he’s said, over and over, quietly and calmly. D’Artagnan slowly relaxed, his eyes wet and his face sweaty and pale. “He took a knock to the head. More than one,” Aramis whispered. “His thoughts are disordered.”

“His father died four days ago. That’s enough to distress him.”

D’Artagnan jerked, his eyes open, staring at them in confusion. “You’re safe,” Athos said again. “You’re in the Musketeer infirmary.”

“I thought...I dreamt my father was...but he isn’t.”

“No. He’s still dead.” Athos touched his hand. “I’m sorry.”

Tears leaked down the lad’s face. “He died in my dream too.”

Aramis put his hand on Athos’s shoulder. “I can take this now.”

“No. Bring him some food, some watered wine. I’ll sit with him. It’s the least I can do.”

As Aramis walked away, D’Artagnan looked at Athos. “Why are you here?”

“Because Aramis ordered me to remain, like you.”

“But you should be in bed.”

“I woke up. Do you find my company displeasing?”

“No! No, I mean....” He sagged back onto the bed. “I made a mess of it. Vadim wasn’t fooled at all.”

“And yet Vadim is dead, his followers dead or captured, the king and queen are safe, and the treasures retrieved. Some mess.”

“He led me by the nose.”

“This is true. But you did what you were asked to do, and bravely. You aren’t required to be infallible. That’s Treville’s job,” he added with a smile.

The lad didn’t smile back. “I want to stay, so much, Athos. Do you know what that’s like?”

“Yes, I do. Peace, d’Artagnan. I find no fault with your two-day-long career.”

“Two days? It feels longer.”

“No food will do that,” Aramis said, returning with a bowl and a cup. Athos helped d’Artagnan sit up, but it became clear his hands were too unsteady to hold the spoon to eat the broth and soaked bread. “I’ll feed you,” Aramis said.

“No. I'm not a child.”

“Then _I’ll_ feed you,” Athos said, “because I assure you, I would not feed a child even at gunpoint. You’re wounded, and thus to be cared for.” He lifted the spoon to D’Artagnan’s mouth. “Please don’t make this more embarrassing for me.”

“For you?”

“If Treville saw me, I’d never hear the end of it. My reputation is somewhat...stern.”

“Believe him, d’Artagnan. He’s worked on it long enough.”

Athos resisted the temptation to turn and give Aramis a look. “Please?” he said instead to d’Artagnan.

The boy capitulated, and seemed to grow steadier with every spoonful. By the time the bowl was empty, he was able to hold the cup of wine himself and drink it. “Better?” Athos asked.

“Yes. Thank you.”

“No need. Aramis can take over now.”

D’Artagnan’s hand shot out. “I mean it. Thank you.”

Athos dipped his head. “You’re welcome. Now rest. We aren’t given long to repair our injuries in the regiment. Enjoy it while it lasts.”

“Did someone send a message to Constance? Madame Bonacieux? She might worry.”

“I’ll have someone send one over in the morning,” Aramis said. “Now do what Athos says. He has a vicious tongue for the disobedient. Even the sick ones.”

“Yes, and I flay newborn kittens for fun,” Athos murmured as he walked away. Aramis laughed quietly, but that was all right. What was said in the infirmary didn’t count.

**********************

In the end, d’Artagnan spent a week in the infirmary, while Aramis and Athos kept an eye on him. Porthos spent three days there and was off duty for two weeks with broken ribs. He muttered bitterly about the enforced rest but never uttered a complaint about the pain from the ribs, which Athos knew personally was excruciating. Imitating his example, d’Artagnan never complained about his own ills, and only nagged them to let him return to duty and to Madame Bonacieux’s house. The lad had formed an attachment there, Athos noted with less than joy. Monsieur Bonacieux was a tiresome, fussy, and vindictive man, and Constance deserved better, but d’Artagnan would only find misery if he pursued a married woman so ardently, without realising, as Aramis did, that he could never offer her more than a diversion.

Athos realised he was being rather hypocritical again, this time for not stopping d’Artagnan interfering with the fidelity of a spouse, but while he could not forgive Catherine for giving up on their marriage so soon, he found himself less angry for her seeking comfort while he had been gone for a year. He would have taken her back even with the pregnancy, if she had not made it so clear there was no affection for him left in her heart. Without love, or at least kindness, there was nothing at all to build on.

He didn’t hear from Anne for a month. Adèle Bessett, Richelieu’s mistress, had left for the country, so Aramis had told them rather mournfully, so Athos couldn’t even casually enquire as to whether he had seen anyone else in the street who might or might not be the cardinal’s woman. Not that he would, of course. He’d promised not to.

Once everyone was back on duty, Athos continued to be vigilant against further attacks by the cardinal. Treville too, had warned them not to engage the Red Guards regardless of provocation, to avoid taverns where they might be encountered, and not to, under any circumstances, partake in duels, however informal. “Don’t give him an excuse. He’s looking for one, and if he has to manufacture one, he will.”

“I thought we’d be on his good side for a while,” Porthos complained. “I mean, saving the king and all from Vadim.”

“The cardinal is sadly lacking in the virtue of gratitude,” Aramis said.

“Miserable sod,” Porthos muttered.

Athos agreed. “That too.”

As the winter loosened its grip on Paris, and the cardinal made no other move to kill any of them, Athos relaxed very slightly. D’Artagnan was coming along nicely, even if his impetuousness and strong emotional nature worked against him all too often. The three of them worked the lad hard, and the lad never complained. If anything, it drove him to urge them to train him longer and more rigorously, as if he wanted to make up for lost time.

“Enjoy your youth,” Athos wanted to tell him. Not like he had. At twenty he’d been a new husband, at twenty-one a _comte_ , at twenty-four a soldier and at twenty-five, a cuckold. At thirty, he was a seasoned Musketeer, old, cynical, and lacking enthusiasm. Even Anne’s return hadn’t restored the exuberance he once had in abundance, and which his father had done so much to suppress.

At last, a message arrived for him at the garrison, a letter containing only a dried blue flower. He left his lodgings after his duty ended for the evening and made his way to Anne’s apartment. This time, she smiled at him as she opened the door. “I wasn’t sure if you’d come.”

“Don’t be foolish,” he said, slipping in and kissing her on the lips. “How could I stay away after being parted for so long? I had more concern you would never want to see me again.”

“As you said, how could I? Wine?”

“If you like.” He put his arms around her as she poured for them both. “Have you had any trouble with the cardinal?”

“No. He’s rather preoccupied with matters of trade at the moment. I believe your next mission may involve one such concern. But he hasn’t ordered me to find a way to kill you again, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I assume you’d let me know.”

“Probably,” she said, twisting to smile at him and hand him a cup of wine. “Almost perfect lovers are hard to find.”

“ _Almost_ perfect?”

“True perfection is dull, don’t you think?”

“Very likely.” They sat together, holding hands. She leaned her head on his shoulder. “What do you do with yourself when you aren’t plotting our downfall?” he asked.

“It wasn’t _my_ plot, Olivier. I meet people. Talk. Listen. I visit one or two useful gentlemen who find me entertaining.”

“I see.”

“Are you jealous?”

He kissed her hair. “Why on earth should I be? Or do you want me to be?”

“No, I don’t. It’s an unattractive emotion. And they pay handsomely for my company.”

“Are you saying I can’t afford you now?”

“Oh, you can’t. Fortunately, you don’t have to. Have you eaten? I have an arrangement with a woman nearby. I usually obtain my dinner through her, when I dine here at all.”

“No, I haven’t, so go ahead. I am curious to see these ‘arrangements’.”

She rose and tugged a bell pull. Shortly afterwards, a knock came at the door, and she spoke to someone outside it. She returned to Athos’s side. “Now we wait for the meal to arrive.”

“Very efficient.”

“I don’t cook if I can help it, and these apartments have no kitchen. I can hardly see _you_ making your own dinner.”

“As you say, not if I can help it. I have done, from time to time. In the field, of course.”

“Of course.” He kissed her cheeky mouth, to her obvious delight. He stroked the curve of her breast under the silk dress, and wondered how she’d paid for it. “How goes your young d’Artagnan?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I nearly put him in prison, or worse. I hope he’s thriving despite it.”

He wanted to ask how she could have entangled an innocent in the cardinal’s sordid scheme like that, but he refrained. He didn’t wish to be estranged from her. “Strangely enough, he was in prison, at least briefly.” He told her of Vadim and the scheme to trap him.

She listened, but seemed unimpressed when he was done. “Of course he didn’t fall for it. Men like Vadim aren’t fools. A young gentleman turns up in his cell, claiming implausibly to have been set up by his new best friends—who are coincidentally Vadim’s persecutors? The only wonder is that he didn’t just stab your lad in the cell.”

“He said he wished he’d strangled him.”

“More fool him for not doing so.”

He frowned disapprovingly. “Anne, Vadim was a ruthless, amoral murderer and thief.”

“As am I, Olivier. So I know how men like him think.”

“You’re not amoral.”

“That’s not what you said last time you were here.”

He sighed. “Must we?”

“I think so. Because I’m _good_ at this, and not so much at the traditional female virtues. Can you see me as a devoted wife with children at my knee, running a household?”

Athos regarded her. “No,” he said, his lips quirking in a smile. “Not really.”

“Not at all. So without a husband, and since I don’t cook, sew, bake, weave or launder, I can be a prostitute, a nun, or a thief.”

“Or a mistress.”

“A prostitute by another name. Or a spy.”

“But if I married you—”

“You can’t. And if you could, I’m not sure I would. Not now. Where would we live? In Pinon, where I’m a wanted woman? In Paris, where I would wait every day for the new _comtesse de La Fèr_ e to be exposed for what she was? In England?”

Athos shuddered. “God no. The weather is dreadful. And the food is worse.”

She smiled. “Yes, it is.”

“But we could go to Spain. The Holy Roman Empire. Venice, perhaps.”

“And do what? You could be a mercenary and I a courtesan?”

“We would be together, that’s all that matters.”

She picked up her cup of wine. “My darling, you could at least return to your estate, banish Catherine, and live out your days in idle comfort. God has not granted such provision for me, or most women.”

“You sound as if you want to keep working for the cardinal.”

“I _want_ to be able to survive. I would rather work for the king, but sadly he’s an overgrown child and not very bright.”

“Keep your voice down,” Athos hissed. “That’s treasonous talk.”

“No, it’s my _opinion_. That of a weak and foolish woman with no power or influence, _monsieur le juge_.”

“This isn’t a joke, Anne.”

She shrugged. “Then arrest me.”

“You said yourself he has spies everywhere.”

“If Richelieu wants me convicted, he would hardly wait for me to condemn myself. I’m saying nothing he has not said about the king in my hearing. He’s nothing if not a hypocrite.” There came a knock at the door. “And there’s our dinner. Let’s not fight over politics, darling.”

He paid the children bearing the trays of food on covered plates, tipping them well, and helped Anne bring the meal to a little table she used for eating. “Not as lavish as La Fère’s,” she said, “but enough for my needs.”

“It’s very good,” Athos murmured, used to far worse from Serge, who tried his best but would never be a culinary genius. A hearty beef stew, cheese, fresh bread, and pastries for breakfast the next day. “Anne, I have an income from La Fère. Not a lavish one, but if we lived simply, we could do very well on it.”

“You’d be bored within a month, my love. And irritable and tired of me in two.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I do. You’ve seen more of the world, tasted more of its pleasures. You’re used to occupation, and I’m used to a certain standard of living.”

“A standard maintained by working as a prostitute is something you wish to maintain?”

Her mouth tightened in anger. “I note your sword is a fine one, your pistol crafted by the best in Paris. You wear leathers and a hat of the highest quality. All this on a soldier’s salary? You don’t deny yourself the pleasures of a decent income. Why should I?”

 _Because I don’t sell my body to earn it_ , he did not say. And nor should he. He sold his skills with sword and pistol. She merely sold another kind of physical ability. “Because it means being beholden to Richelieu, and that is a dangerous position to be in.”

“True. But for now, I can’t escape without him seeking me out and having me killed. I plan to earn as much as I can until I can leave.”

That placated Athos enough that he could enjoy the meal, and her company, and their sweet lovemaking. He kissed her when he left in the morning, and smiled to think how irked Aramis would be to be denied the truth of his good mood. But over the next few days his thoughts returned to their conversation. Surely there was some way she could live a decent, comfortable life with him that didn’t risk her exposure or tedium. When he discovered the answer, then he could leave and be with her forever.


	3. Chapter 3

Anne’s prediction regarding their next task proved correct, when they were sent to Le Havre to escort a privateer named Bonnaire back to Paris. “I don’t understand why he needs an armed guard at all,” d’Artagnan remarked to Athos as they set off on the long ride to the coast. “How much danger could he be in?”

“He went and said it, didn’t he?” Porthos said, cuffing d’Artagnan upside the head.

The boy glared at Porthos. “What?”

“He means you have cursed us,” Aramis said. “I, as a good Catholic,” he paused while Athos cleared his throat theatrically, “do not believe in such things. But it’s to be assumed that the captain would not waste our talents on someone who did not need guarding.”

“Though the cardinal certainly would,” Athos felt compelled to add. “Never complain about being sent out of Paris, d’Artagnan.”

“Yeah, if there’s a choice between this and guard duty at the palace, I know which one I pick,” Porthos said.

The ride to Le Havre proved uneventful and pleasant in many ways. D’Artagnan had found his confidence again, and was slowly becoming as essential to their well-being as they were to his. His potential seemed limitless, and though he still could not restrain his impulse to react to every slight to his pride, Athos was convinced he would one day surpass all of them. If he lived that long. Athos would do all he could to make that happen.

The reason for their presence became clear within moments of encountering Bonnaire and the covert but intense attention he was receiving in the tavern in Le Havre. Extracting him proved amusing enough, but Athos’s amusement wore decidedly thin as the little man chattered boastfully on and on. And on. Porthos appeared to have an endless appetite for his nonsense, but like Athos, Aramis preferred to hang back, leaving the other two to wear out their ears.

“I fear our friend is taking Monsieur Bonnaire all too seriously,” Aramis murmured to him.

“I hope it’s simply his love of a good tale well told. I can’t believe anyone takes this fool seriously.”

“Someone must, or we wouldn’t be dragging his conceited carcass all the way back to Paris. I’d much rather have the company of his wife.”

“A short life but a merry one, then,” Athos said. Aramis laughed.

Bonnaire’s ability to irritate the most placid of people had won him many enemies, it seemed, and after having been trailed for some time by two riders dressed in black, their caravan was attacked a day’s ride from Paris. This time Bonnaire’s onetime business partner, Paul Meunier had instigated the assault, and the reason their guest was so unpopular became clear as Meunier explained how Bonnaire had cheated him. Athos sent the man on his way with promises to bring the matter to the cardinal’s attention.

However, there was a more urgent problem. Porthos’s wound was more serious than Athos had realised, and Aramis wanted shelter to treat their friend. Athos was torn. They were only two miles from Pinon, three from the house, but taking his friends there was the last thing he wanted. In the end, Aramis shamed him into putting his foolish emotions aside for Porthos’s sake, and Athos led them on the road to Pinon. He ignored the startled looks and bows from the villagers, all of whom knew him quite well since before he'd become the _comte_ , and rode on to the house. He decided the only way to do this was to be utterly brazen about it.

He stalked in and snapped at the first servant he saw, a man he didn’t recognise. “Have someone bring clean cloths and boiled water to the hall. I have a wounded colleague.”

“And who are you, _monsieur_?”

“The _comte_ _de La Fère._ Where is the _comtesse_ , Catherine?”

“Out riding with the baron. I’m sorry, _monsieur_ , but you’ll—”

Athos drew his pistol. “Do as I say. And find me Piquet, or at least any servant who’s worked here more than five years.”

Sensing Athos wasn’t bluffing, the man hurried off. Athos threw open the doors to the great hall. “In there,” he told Aramis and d’Artagnan. “Put him on a table. Aramis, what else do you need?”

“The cloths, the water, boiled clean bandages if you have any. And brandy or another spirit.”

“That I can do.”

As Athos walked out, intending to go to the cellar, Piquet approached him. The man was now quite ancient, and walked like a goat with a broken leg. “So it’s true! You have returned, my lord.” He bowed.

“It’s temporary. Piquet, I have an injured friend who will die if we don’t help him.” Athos turned and found d’Artagnan behind him. “Take this lad, and give him everything he asks for. Quickly,” he added to both of them. “I’ll find the brandy.”

The wine cellar was well stocked and he grabbed two bottles of the best brandy stored there, though he doubted Porthos would appreciate that fact. Back in the hall, a little group of servants had gathered to watch the show. “Be off with all of you,” Athos bellowed. “I’ll call if I need anything. Leave!”

Aramis accepted the brandy, giving one bottle to Porthos to drink for the pain, and using the other to wash his instruments. D’Artagnan positioned himself at the door, keeping an eye on Bonnaire who cringed in the corner. “This is going to hurt, my friend,” Aramis said to Porthos. “Athos?”

Reluctantly, Athos punched Porthos and dazed him. D’Artagnan stared in shock at his brutality. “It’s the only way, without poppy,” Athos explained. “He’s just too strong to hold down.”

Anxiously, he watched Aramis’s delicate skill with a needle drag Porthos back from the edge of death. When Porthos was finally bandaged and laid on one of the long chairs, Athos could finally breathe again. “He’ll live?”

“I believe so,” Aramis said, expression relaxed now it was all over. “Now explain what the devil is going on. Since when are you the _comte_ _de La Fère_?”

“Since my father fell off a horse and died when I was twenty-one. We can stay here tonight, but I have no wish to extend my visit. Stay here. I’ll have food and drink brought to you. Since I’m here, I have business to attend to. D’Artagnan, guard Bonnaire. He does not leave even if there is a fire, do you understand?”

The boy’s expression was troubled, but he nodded. “Yes, Athos.”

Athos left the hall. Piquet was waiting for him, and bowed again. “My lord? May I ask your intentions?”

“I will be here tonight, and we leave tomorrow. Have mattresses or pallets brought for the five of us. Food and drink as well. We’ll make ourselves comfortable in the hall. Our horses need to be watered and fed. See to it, will you?”

“And my lady?”

“Can do as she wishes. Is she expected tonight?”

“No, my lord. She’s staying at the baron’s. The boy too.”

“The boy? Oh, yes. Just keep people away from here, and admit no one except to bring what I asked for. Are there any other servants from my time here?”

“Only Cook, my lord. My lady got rid of everyone else.”

“How congenial of her. I’m going to see Guillame. I’ll return later.”

Piquet bowed. “Yes, my lord. It’s good to see you here again.”

“I wish I could say the same.”

He mounted Roger, remembering the first time he’d taken the young horse out under saddle. Amethea had died years ago, of course, after a long and useful life, but something of her proud endurance had been passed on to her son. Honestly, Roger was the only thing Athos remembered fondly of this place, and he was leaving with Athos. There was nothing else for him now.

Guillame quickly got over his shock at seeing the _comte_ again, and seized on the opportunity to discuss outstanding matters in person, instead of by slow and uncertain correspondence. Catherine had been wise enough not to interfere overmuch with the manager, though Baron Rénard had been unable to resist attempting to overrule Athos’s orders. “I do not wish to become involved, but if the man becomes impossible to stop, let me know.”

Guillame nodded. “Thank you, my lord. Up to now, I think he’s stayed his hand precisely for that reason. That boy of his, Edmond, is becoming a handful, though.”

“Thought he might. None of them have the smallest right to tell you to do anything. You work for me, not my wife, and certainly not that family.”

“I do understand, my lord.”

Athos spent three hours with his manager, and left somewhat less troubled in his mind than he had been before he arrived. The estate was in good hands, and though it would pass eventually to Rénard’s bastard rather than to Athos’s own flesh and blood, at least the baron would have no claim on it. Though Athos’s family had held the estate for two hundred years, all things came to an end, and if this was the end of the family line, so be it.

He hadn’t been so sanguine when he’d left the first time. But back then he hadn’t had the Musketeers, Anne, and self-respect. All that was worth so much more than La Fère.

Porthos was awake but in pain, and grousing about his mysteriously sore jaw, about which Athos didn’t comment because he didn’t feel like being punched back. The food, wine, water, and beds had been delivered, and they were all as safe as they could be for the night. All he had to do was eat, sleep, and leave in the morning if Porthos could travel. Bonnaire was secure too. Athos was, for once, supernumerary.

Which of course was the perfect time for an attack of restlessness and an intense desire to stalk the house and the grounds. “I’ll be back later,” he told the others, and left before any of them could question him. He went to the library, to his surprise apparently untouched and unused since his departure. He breathed in deeply, the scent of the place familiar even after all these years. He ran his fingers over the spines of the books. His own. His father’s. And his grandfather’s. The library wasn’t as old as the house by any means.

The door opened. “Athos?”

Athos turned on his heel. “I don’t recall asking you to accompany me, d’Artagnan.”

“No. I just thought you might like someone too. You aren’t happy to be here.”

“That applies to many places and many things. I don’t need my hand held.”

“I wasn’t offering to.” The lad came closer. “Nice library.”

“Yes, it is. Wasted now.” He gave the books one last pat. Shame he had nowhere for them in Paris. “I’m all right. You can go back now.”

“Do I have to? Bonnaire is...annoying.”

Athos smiled. “He is, isn’t he? How is Porthos?”

“Doing well. Aramis wants us to stay another night.”

“No. We leave tomorrow.” He walked to the door. “You don’t need to come with me now.”

“Right.” But he still fell in behind Athos like a tall, brown shadow.

Athos went up to his old chamber, again left untouched. At least there was no sign that Rénard had slept there. Perhaps that was a step too far even for Catherine. D’Artagnan looked around, and touched the mirror. “Is this your room?”

“It was. I haven’t been here for more than five years.”

“Do you mind if I ask why?”

“Yes, I do.” Athos found two shirts he’d left behind, and for which he had a use. Nothing else had any relevance to his life any more.

D’Artagnan pointed to the painting on the wall. “Was that your father?”

“Yes.”

“And the young man’s portrait in the hall?”

“My brother, Thomas. Everyone’s favourite.” He hadn’t consciously thought of Thomas in such a long time, and the pain of those memories slamming back into his chest made his breath catch.

“Where is he now?”

“He’s dead.” He gave d’Artagnan the full force of his glare, but the boy didn’t flinch. Brave, but not very intelligent of him. “This is none of your affair, d’Artagnan.”

“I know. It’s just...it’s part of what made you who you are, so it can’t be all bad, can it?”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about. You think you know me, but you don’t.”

His raised voice produced a flinch this time. “I’m sorry to have offended you.” D’Artagnan bowed a little, and left.

Athos sagged. He hated who he was in this house. He hated who he’d become here. He had spent years sloughing off the scales and dirt from his soul, and a few hours back here had replaced them as if they had never gone.

He went down to the stables. The horses were good stock, and he was sure at least two were from Amethea. The baron’s doing, then. The only thing Rénard had any talent for was choosing horses. He certainly had no talent for making sons of any worth.

Roger was safely stabled, and now eating his head off. Athos had thought about taking him for one last ride, but the evening was drawing in and disturbing the stallion was pointless. Instead he just stood with the horse, patting his neck and speaking nonsense to him, rubbing his soft nose and thinking of how he’d love to touch Amethea’s nose even when he was so small, he could barely reach it unless she bent her head low for him.

He walked back around to the front of the house, and stiffened as he realised that there were horses coming up the road. His hand went to his pistol, and he wondered if he should fire a warning shot to bring his brothers to him. But the riders were not more irritated partners of Emile Bonnaire. They were instead, Athos’s wife and lover. And their son.

Catherine pulled up her mount, her nostril flared in annoyance. “Olivier?”

“Catherine,” he replied calmly.

“Why are you here?”

“Why should I not be? I do own this house, after all.”

“You know what I mean. Are you here to stay?”

“If I said yes, would you embrace me, wife? You dare bring your paramour to my home?”

“Mind your tongue, La Fère,” Rénard barked. “We are not here for your mockery.”

“No, I imagine not. Leave, Rénard, or I’ll have you removed. You’re no longer welcome.”

The baron drew himself up. “You abandoned your estate. I rather think it’s for the _comtesse_ to give the orders now.”

“You rather think incorrectly.” Athos drew his pistol and aimed it at the baron’s undistinguished features. “Leave, or I will kill you for trespassing and violating my wife.”

Catherine spoke hastily in a low voice to her lover, and the man turned his horse and galloped off without a second look at either husband or wife. “Satisfied?” she said to Athos.

“Somewhat. Aren’t you going to introduce your son?”

She sniffed in irritation. “Philippe, this is Olivier d’Athos, the _comte de La Fère_.”

“Your mother’s husband,” Athos added, as the child stared in confusion. At least he didn’t take after his father. At least, not yet. “Does he know?”

“What? That you abandoned me five years ago while I was pregnant? Not yet. He will, though.”

“That’s a carefully edited account of what happened. You don’t imagine people will inform him of the rest?”

She looked away. “Do you plan to conduct your business here on the front steps?”

“You expect me to believe you care about appearances while you ride here with your lover?”

“How long are you staying?”

He thought about saying ‘for good’ but he was done with her and this conversation. “One night. I have an injured colleague. You will not interfere or converse with any of us while we’re here. Piquet can convey any requests we have. We’ll leave tomorrow.”

“Good.”

He walked up to her, and held the bridle of her mount. “One more thing, Catherine. If I hear that Rénard has ever entered La Fère again, I will challenge him to a duel. And trust me, I’m a _much_ better shot than I was when I left. I’m better, faster, younger and with a much greater grudge. So if you value your decrepit lover’s life, you keep him from this house, or he’ll be dead and you turned out to starve for all I care.”

She tossed her head. “I’ll do as I please, Olivier. You don’t live here any more.”

He gave her a cold smile. “No. But I have friends who do, and they report to me. I mean it. You have made a mockery of our marriage. You won’t make a mockery of this house and its history too. Now, be about your business.”

He walked back inside, his hands shaking with rage. God, the sheer nerve of the two of them, and to flaunt their behaviour in front of a child. He thought he might vomit with disgust.

“Athos? Are you all right?”

Good God, the boy had been keeping a watch out for him. He clasped d’Artagnan’s shoulder. “I will be once I leave this place. Go inside. I’m just...going to fetch more wine.”

D’Artagnan frowned, and for a moment Athos thought he might disobey, but then he nodded. “Come back soon. Porthos is worried.”

“Porthos is bored. Not the same thing.”

The lad smiled, then went back into the hall, closing the door behind him. Athos went to the wine cellar. He needed time alone, and he needed to get good and drunk, if he was to get through the night without his past choking him.

**********************

D’Artagnan came looking for Athos in the morning, and found him disgraced and hungover in the cellar. “You can’t travel like this.”

Athos grasped his arm. “Take Porthos and Bonnaire to Paris. I’ll follow you later.”

“Athos, are you all right?”

“I’m fine. Just go. Don’t delay. You can be back in Paris by evening if you leave now.”

“Are you sure?”

“Leave, I said!”

D’Artagnan took a step back in shock, then turned and left. Athos hung his head. How disgusting he was. In all his years in the regiment he had never once been too drunk to do his duty. Not until now. But then again, these were exceptional circumstances.

He curled up and slept for what he judged was a couple of hours, then he dragged himself up the stairs, ignored the stares of the servants, and went to the stables. One of the grooms helped him saddle Roger, and Piquet, kinder to Athos than he had earned, brought him some bread and apples for his saddle bag, and his refilled water bottles.

“Thank you,” Athos said, unable to smile for the pain in his head.

“You’re welcome, my lord. Will you be all right now?”

“Once I’m away from here, I will be. Thank you...for your loyalty, Piquet.”

“That’s all right, my lord. The old master was kind to me, and you were always a good master to me.”

“Good day. We will likely not meet again.”

“In heaven we might, my lord.”

Athos forbore from stating that he personally was unlikely to end up there, and only nodded, his hat tipped low to keep the morning sun out of his eyes.

He set Roger to cantering, though the motion made his head pound with every heartbeat. He was never drinking again.

Suddenly Roger shied, and Athos struggled to control him. There was a man in the road, a pistol in his hand pointed straight at Athos. Athos drew his own weapon but before he could cock the pistol, the stranger fired, and Roger reared up in fright, sending Athos crashing to the ground.

He wasn’t allowed to gain his feet before the stranger leaped on him, knocking him nearly senseless with a blow to his jaw. Another man joined the first, the two of them punching and kicking and using their pistol butts like clubs on him, while he covered his head and tried to avoid a fatal blow. It was Roger who saved him, biting and lashing out with his powerful front feet. “That’s enough,” Athos heard one say as he barely avoided having his brains dashed out by Roger’s hoof. “We’ve done enough.”

“Shoot the horse before we go.”

Athos finally got his hand on his pistol and drew it. “Touch him and you die,” he gasped.

The one who suggested it, spat on the ground. “Suit yourself, _my lord_.” The two of them walked away, apparently unconcerned that Athos might shoot them anyway.

He groaned and tried to get his legs under him. Roger was still dancing about in agitation, and Athos had a job to do to avoid his hooves. He did his best to soothe the angry horse, and eventually Roger consented to lower his head and let Athos pull himself upright by his neck. It wasn’t an improvement. Between his hangover and the beating, Athos was as perfectly miserable as any of his enemies could have wished. He was sure which of his enemies had planned this little surprise. _Damn_ _Rènard_.

With a struggle he hauled himself into the saddle, but cantering was out of the question. He had to let Roger walk at his own speed because he could barely sit upright. He rode through the village and didn’t look at anyone who acknowledged him. He managed another mile or so, two at the most, before he passed out, falling from the saddle. He didn’t remember hitting the ground.

He came to with water being splashed in his face. “My God, Athos, you’re alive. What happened?”

Athos blinked up at his saviour. _D’Artagnan_. Of course it was d’Artagnan. “Why are you here?” His voice sounded like it had been passed through a cow’s arse.

“I was worried. With good reason, as it turned out. What happened?”

“Ambush.”

“Meunier again? We were ambushed too. Spanish agents. Bonnaire’s wife was killed.”

“His wife?” Athos wasn’t lucid enough to follow this conversation. “Help me up.”

“Athos, you’re injured.”

“So is Porthos. Please, d’Artagnan.”

Standing proved to be too ambitious, but d’Artagnan got him off the road and under a tree where Athos could catch his breath. “Tell me,” he demanded.

“Maria Bonnaire found us and got Bonnaire away from us. Aramis and I gave chase, caught up with him, and found her dead with one dead and one dying Spaniard. Aramis questioned him, but he died without telling us anything.”

“Bonnaire?”

“Retrieved.”

Athos rested his head back on the tree. “Is Aramis still taking him to Paris?”

“Yes.”

“You should be with them.”

“They’re fine. I thought I’d come back for you and we’d catch them up. I wasn’t expecting...who did this, Athos?”

“My wife’s lover. Baron Rénard. I...upset him.”

“So he beats you half to death.” D’Artagnan shook his head. “No, not him. His servants. Nobles don’t dirty their own hands, do they?” Athos gave him a look. “Present company excepted.”

Athos closed his eyes. “Leave me and go after them. They need you more than I do.”

“Athos, you should see yourself before you say that.”

“What if there’s another ambush? Aramis will have to handle it on his own.”

“Porthos can handle a pistol. They told me to fetch you.”

Athos doubted that. “Still, go. I’ll find you all in Paris.”

“No. If you don’t leave with me, I don’t leave.”

Athos cracked open an eye. “That was an order.”

“Sorry, I’ve suddenly come over all hard of hearing.”

Athos coughed out a laugh. It was so like something he might have said once upon a time to Treville. “Insubordinate pup.”

“Where are you injured? Are your ribs broken?”

“No. Cracked a little. It’s bruising, mostly. That, and too much to drink last night. I’m sorry. I let you all down.”

“Your wife came back last night. One of the servants was talking about the baron. Was that Rénard?”

Athos nodded, and immediately regretted it. “Her lover, and father of her son. He returned with her last night and we had words.”

“Is that why you left? And why you didn’t want to come back here even for Porthos?”

“Yes.”

d’Artagnan rested a hand on his shoulder. “I’m not surprised you got drunk.”

Athos clutched the front of d’Artagnan’s shirt. “I failed you all.”

“Remember you telling me only Treville has to be infallible? He doesn’t need to know. No one does.”

“You do.”

“I do what?”

Athos looked at him. “Know.”

D’Artagnan’s expression became wide-eyed and innocent. “What do I know? I’m just a simple farmer from Gascony. I’m not very observant, and I have a terrible memory.”

“You’re a good man, d’Artagnan. Better than me.”

“No. One day I might be as good, if I work hard and train harder. But no one could be better than you.”

 _Hero worship._ Athos sighed. “I can’t sit here all day. Help me back on my horse.”

But d’Artagnan made him sit until he could stand without help, and then only consented to let them ride at walking pace. “You could tie me to the saddle, you realise.”

“And if we’re attacked, you’d be completely at their mercy while I’m trying to control your horse and my own. I think they hit you harder in the head than I thought.”

Athos swallowed his retort. It was possible d’Artagnan was speaking the bare truth.

After half an hour or so, Athos felt slightly more in control and they rode faster, though they would not reach Paris that day. D’Artagnan made them stop for food and water three hours later, and that helped settle Athos’s stomach, though not his aching head. “How is Porthos?” Athos asked.

“All right, considering he tore his stitches trying to kill Bonnaire last night. Did you know Bonnaire’s a slave trader?”

Athos stared at him. “No, I did not.”

D’Artagnan explained that Porthos, bored and unable to sleep, had had a look at the plans Bonnaire was making for his latest trading ship, and realised what the cargo was, and who would be working the plantations he had spoken of so enthusiastically. “Porthos’s mother was a freed slave. He’s very upset.”

“I imagine he is. Unfortunately, slaving is a cruel trade, but it’s not illegal.”

“It doesn’t sit right with me that we’re protecting a slaver. Or that the cardinal wants to do business with one.”

“We are not given the freedom to pick and choose.” But Porthos would have justice somehow, Athos vowed.

“How do you feel?”

“Foolish. Fortunately Rénard’s men saved me the trouble of kicking my own arse.”

D’Artagnan threw his head back and laughed, making Athos smile. The lad was so full of life, and of joy despite his sorrows. If Athos had had a son, he could wish for nothing better than that the child grew up to be like this young man.

“We should go.” Athos allowed d’Artagnan to haul him to his feet, and kept a grip on his hand a moment longer than necessary. “Thank you.”

D’Artagnan grinned. “No need.” Athos snorted in amusement.

Despite his ragged condition, they picked up more speed, and when they reached an inn at dusk, Athos recognised two of the horses in the stables. “Seems we’ve caught up with our brothers after all.”

D’Artagnan raced ahead of him and returned with Aramis. “God in heaven, Athos, what happened to you?”

“A vengeful lover. Makes a change, doesn’t it?”

“Now this is a story I have to hear. Are you injured?”

“Only my pride,” Athos lied.

Once they had another room, he let Aramis fuss while d’Artagnan ate supper with Porthos and Bonnaire. “They might have killed you.”

“They weren’t trying to. They wouldn’t have taken me at all if I hadn’t been such a fool as to drink on duty.”

“Is there something we need to know about that caused you to do that?”

“You know most of it already, and the rest is in the past where it needs to stay. It won’t happen again.”

“I hope not. As the Lothario of our little band, I would take it amiss if you died at the hands of an angry paramour.”

“Yes, but in this play, I am the one who should seek vengeance. The lover is my wife’s.”

Aramis’s hands stilled in his inspection of the deep bruises on Athos’s torso. “Shameless.”

“I fancy he thinks if I’m out of the way, he can marry her and join our estates. But as I _am_ still a _comte_ , he daren’t go quite as far as to murder me outright. At least, not yet. This reaction surprised me.”

Aramis resumed his gentle probing. “Perhaps we should return and teach him a lesson.”

“Perhaps we should vow never to go near my estate again and the problem goes away.”

“That’s one way to deal with it. Well, as far as I can see, you’re not dying.”

“Thank you. Porthos?”

“Should have stayed another night, should have avoiding trying to punch Bonnaire in his lying face, and should have stopped riding three hours before he did. But he’ll live, though his soul is another matter. This slavery business is evil, Athos.”

“Agreed. Bonnaire can share my and D’Artagnan’s room tonight. It’ll give Porthos a rest from his lies.”

When Athos saw how subdued and sad Porthos was, he wasn’t sorry at all to have agreed to switch their captive’s room. D’Artagnan was doing his best to cheer Porthos’s mood, but it was having little effect. Athos ate as quickly as he could, then ordered D’Artagnan to take Bonnaire to their room. “Tie him up, gag him if he won’t be quiet.”

“But the evening is young,” Bonnaire protested.

“Be thankful we haven’t tied you to a saddle and left you in the stables. Go. Behave or I will kill you, cardinal or no cardinal.”

D’Artagnan blinked a little at Athos’s vicious tone, but took control of the man and moved him on in quick order. “Now you can breathe some clean air,” Athos said to Porthos. “I’m sorry, my friend. I didn’t know what he was up to.”

Porthos stared at the wall in front of him. “It ain’t even him I’m mad at. It’s the people who want to use him. Should’ve let the Spanish have him.”

“That needs more investigation. But for now, rest, eat, get well. No more bursting stitches.”

“Keep that bastard away from me and I can do that.”

“I’ll do my best,” Athos said, touching Porthos on his uninjured shoulder.

Up in the room, Athos found d’Artagnan had not resorted to gagging their prisoner. “I think you scared him,” d’Artagnan said with a smirk.

“I hope so, because I’m serious. If he makes a single sound unconnected to a genuine emergency, I’ll save us the trouble of hauling him back to Paris.” Bonnaire’s eyes widened with gratifying fear. _Good_.

There were only two beds, and understandably d’Artagnan did not want to share with their guest. “I could sleep on the floor if you think I’ll hurt your bruises,” he said quietly as they readied themselves for bed, shedding boots and doublets, but retaining trousers and shirts in case of trouble. With a prisoner like Bonnaire, that was more likely than not.

“I don’t need to be coddled, especially since this is my own fault.”

“I don’t see how you invited a beating from a man clearly in the wrong.”

“I invited a beating by being too hungover to fight back. There were only two of them after all.”

“Ah. Perhaps _you_ should sleep on the floor then.”

Athos lifted an eyebrow at the youngster’s cheek, but said nothing. He climbed onto the bed and left a space for the boy to join him if he wished. A few moments later, d’Artagnan did so, though he kept himself away from Athos’s back. “If you lie like that, you _will_ end up on the floor. Move closer. I don’t bite, and you won’t hurt me.”

D’Artagnan obeyed, his warmth welcome to Athos’s sore body. He was a considerate bed partner, lying still, quiet, and compact, unlike Aramis who tended to spread all over whomever he shared with, or Porthos, who muttered and twitched and fought imaginary enemies in his sleep. Doubtless Athos had his own annoying habits, though none of his partners had deigned to describe them. Thomas had been peaceful to sleep with too, once, content to be with his big brother’s arms around him protectively.

 _Damn_. He should stop thinking about Thomas. So many of his memories ended up there though. Thinking of Anne, of Catherine, the estate. His father.

Think of D’Artagnan instead, he told himself. Save for his youthful energy, the boy was little like Thomas. He treated women respectfully, was hardworking, honest, and wanted to serve France. He did have a rather acid tongue, but still, one didn’t survive the likes of Treville, Aramis, or Athos himself, by being a shy and polite gentleman. Athos relished the banter between the two of them, even if he would not overtly encourage it. Spending time with the boy alone, even on a day as tiresome and painful as this one, was always enjoyable in a way Athos would never admit to anyone.

Athos’s last thought before succumbing to sleep was that it was a shame d’Artagnan was wearing out his generous heart and passion on a married woman.


	4. Chapter 4

Athos split from the others at the edge of Paris. There had been no other attempts on Bonnaire’s life, but Athos felt sure they had not ended. He wanted to carry out certain investigations while the privateer was taken to the palace, and there was the small matter of Athos himself not being fit for polite company at present, thanks to the beating. He arranged for them to meet at the garrison later that day.

He had a briefly exciting and highly informative discussion with a Spanish gentleman, which did not immediately offer Athos a way to give Porthos the justice, he craved. He could only commiserate with his brothers over the injustice of the situation, for if they had allowed the Spanish to kill Bonnaire as they had tried to do, Bonnaire would not then have been paid by the cardinal to carry out his hideous scheme.

Porthos wanted to drink. Athos didn’t blame him at all. “I’ll watch him,” he told Aramis and d’Artagnan. “It’s more than my turn.”

Aramis clapped him on the shoulder. “Then I’ll take the opportunity to attend to some mundane matters before we ride out tomorrow. I do wish Treville had granted the honour of taking the slaver back to Le Havre to some of our colleagues.”

“Goodnight,” Athos said without answering that complaint. He was grateful, in fact, that Treville had chosen the four of them again, for he had a plan and wanted a chance to go over it with Porthos, for it was for Porthos he wished to enact it. “D’Artagnan? Are you coming as well?”

“No, I’ll stay a while. Bonacieux is home,” he added gloomily.

“Ah, the difficulties of courting a married lady,” Aramis said, tweaking his moustache.

“I’m not courting her!”

“Of course not. Gentlemen.” Aramis took his leave, still grinning a little.

“I’m not courting her,” D’Artagnan muttered.

“I hope not,” Athos said. “Unless she leaves him, or he leaves her, I can hardly approve of you interfering with an intact marriage.”

“You never say that to Aramis,” Porthos said, already well down his first bottle of wine.

“Aramis is incorrigible and twelve years D’Artagnan’s senior. One may as well argue with a block of wood on that score.”

“You don’t want me to make the same mistakes?” D’Artagnan asked.

“My life is exciting enough with his amorous adventures. I don’t need more.”

D’Artagnan made a face, but Athos hoped his words had some effect. He foresaw only heartbreak for their young companion, and would spare him that pain.

“I thought your own amorous adventures were making your life exciting,” Porthos said, leering a little.

Athos shook his head. “It’s not love I wish to talk to you both about. I have an idea about giving Bonnaire what he truly deserves.”

“A bloody good hiding?” Porthos said, setting his cup down.

Athos smiled a little. “Something like that.”

**********************

Athos’s plan cheered Porthos enough that he no longer sought to drown his misery in wine, and the three of them instead spent the evening playing cards and talking. But Porthos was still injured, and Athos still bore the effects of the beating, so they didn’t linger for more than a couple of hours in the tavern. Athos walked Porthos back to the garrison as he had promised to do, though Porthos protested he didn’t need a nursemaid. “Not a nursemaid. A friend who regrets not supporting you better.”

“You didn’t make the little arsehole a slaver. But we might just stop him being one.”

“If all goes well, yes. Sleep well, brother.” Athos hugged his friend. “Mind you don’t tear those stitches again.”

“You guys are never letting me forget that, are you?”

“Probably not.”

When Porthos left, Athos turned to d’Artagnan. “I also don’t need a nursemaid. You need rest. We ride early tomorrow.”

“Are you going to your mistress now?

Athos regarded him in surprise. “How is that your concern?”

“Why don’t you let us meet her? Why don’t you tell us her name?”

“Because I do not wish to.”

He met d’Artagnan’s glare steadily. “You have so many secrets, Athos. Like your title, and your wife.”

“We all have secrets.”

“I don’t.”

“Because your soul is clean and your heart unbroken. Live another five years and you’ll have things you don’t wish to discuss. Now, go home.” He walked away.

“But what if someone attacks you again? You were hurt because of things we didn’t know about. What if she leads you to danger?”

Athos didn’t turn. “Then I’ll be most put out. It’s still nothing to do with you. Goodnight.”

 _Brat._ Touching of him to care, but clearly D’Artagnan assumed he had some claim on Athos’s intimate life that he did not. Athos would have to avoid giving him that impression in future.

**********************

The deceit worked perfectly, and Athos couldn’t hold back a smirk as he contemplated Bonnaire in Spanish custody, Meunier with goods the cardinal had thought to steal from under him, and Porthos’s grin at having putting an end to at least one evil scheme involving unfortunate men and women and children being forced into slavery. The four of them hugged enthusiastically as they left the tavern, their friendship whole and healthy as it had been before they had ever met Bonnaire.

The ride back to Paris was almost like a holiday, with no annoying braggart to din their ears, and no lurking Spaniards to contend with. Since the weather was fine that first night, they chose to save their coin and camp in the open air, and though Aramis complained as he always did, he put down his bedroll next to Porthos and the two of them were soon asleep. Athos and D’Artagnan had elected to take the first watch, and made themselves comfortable beside the fire.

“If you want to sleep, I can do this alone. I’ve done it often enough,” d’Artagnan said.

“So have I, and I know it’s easier with two. Do I look to be in my dotage, d’Artagnan?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then stop behaving as if I need to be treated like a small child.”

He kept his gaze on the lad until d’Artagnan looked away. “I’m sorry. It’s just...seeing you in the road the other day. I thought you were dead...and it reminded me so much of my father dying, I nearly fainted from fear.”

“Harm to me is not harm to you. And I'm not your father.”

D’Artagnan hung his head. Athos waited, knowing from experience that silence was often the best way to loosen a man’s tongue when he wanted to talk, but didn’t know how to speak his thoughts.

At last, d’Artagnan found the words. “After I came to Paris...after I realised you weren’t my father’s killer, and I killed the man who was...I felt lost. All my life, my father had made all the decisions, and all I had to do was obey him. Suddenly I had to make my own decisions, my own choices, and I had no idea what to do. For a while, I pretended he was still alive, so I could think to myself, ‘What would Papa do?’.” He looked at Athos. “Was it like that for you?”

“Not quite. The rituals and rhythms of an estate are set by tradition and the seasons. I had only to follow them, and I had an estate manager. But I often heard him in my mind. Not always a pleasant thought.” D’Artagnan cocked his head, silently questioning. “He did not esteem my skills as worth much.”

“Ah. My father wasn’t like that. He was very determined, very sure of everything. But he praised me when I deserved it.” His eyes fixed on something far beyond the fire and their companions. “You’re like him, that way.”

“I wasn’t aware I’d praised you at all,” Athos teased.

“Maybe you don’t say anything, but I know when I’ve pleased you.” D’Artagnan poked the fire with a stick. “When Aramis suggested I could stay and try for a commission as a Musketeer, it was such a relief. I didn’t have to think what to do. Someone else had come up with an idea, and all I had to do was accept. So I did.”

“So it wasn’t actually your preference.”

“Oh, it is! Now, I mean. I love it. It feels right. It feels like where I should have been all my life. It’s not what we do. It’s you and Aramis and Porthos. You feel like my family. So when I thought you dead...it felt like I’d lost everything again.”

“You can’t stop our deaths, d’Artagnan. Not forever. You must find a purpose for yourself, a place for yourself that losing any one of us will not take from you. Some men find it in their sweethearts and making a family with them. Some men, like the captain, find it in their duty. Others are born to a place and a purpose, as I was. But do not anchor your happiness to me, I warn you. Follow Porthos, or Aramis, if you must. My path is sterile and strewn with thorns. I want no companion on it who's blinded by hero worship and grief for a lost parent. It’s for those who have lost all other hope.”

D’Artagnan stared at him. “How can you live believing that?” he whispered.

“By knowing I’m hurting no one else by doing so. I am not your father. I’m not a hero. If I die, your life will go on and it will be as rich and full of promise as it was before. Your father would be horrified if he thought his example had only prepared you to be a follower for the rest of your life. You have the makings of a great soldier, even a great leader. Great men do not let others decide for them. You decide. You choose.”

“You’re wrong. Great men don’t walk through life, letting their friends, their _brothers_ , fall by the wayside without trying to help them. Don’t ask me to not care if you die, or you’re hurt. Or even if you’re unhappy. Don’t ask that of me for any of you. I did decide. I did choose.”

“You misunderstand—”

“Excuse me.” D’Artagnan climbed quickly to his feet and stalked off into the darkness. Athos sighed. Had he not been clear enough or was d’Artagnan determined to misunderstand?

The lad returned after an hour or so, without an apology, or indeed any other words. The rest of the shift passed in uncompanionable silence, so Athos was surprised when, as he lay down on his bedroll, d’Artagnan cuddled close against his back under the same blanket, just as if they were sharing a bed. Was it forgiveness, or the cold night? Athos didn’t mind which, because he enjoyed the feel of his companion against him. But he resolved to keep his thoughts on life’s purpose to himself. He hadn’t been able to convince Thomas of following a healthy path in adulthood, and d’Artagnan would doubtless do better without Athos’s advice, if his reaction tonight was anything to go by.

His overreaction to Athos’s injury would probably not occur again, being a side-effect of losing his father so recently. Then hopefully he would build confidence in his own judgement, and be less dependent on the approval of his seniors, and of Athos, especially.


	5. Chapter 5

Anne did not summon Athos for over a week after their return to Paris, so when at last her note arrived at the garrison for him, he went over straight after he was dismissed for the day.

“What _have_ you been doing to the cardinal?” she asked after they embraced.

“Why do you ask?” Athos said, knowing perfectly well what she referred to.

“He’s been in an appalling temper for days, and all I know is it has something to do with someone you were guarding. I’ve been lying low. One never knows what he’ll do in this kind of mood.”

“He may have suffered a disappointment in his business dealings. I couldn’t possibly comment, you realise.”

“Of course not,” she said, one eyebrow lifted in sarcastic counterpoint. “Clever you, if you managed it without him realised you were behind it.”

“He must never know. But I’m not sorry in the slightest.”

“Don’t be. But do tell me everything. I could do with a good laugh.”

It was the last time he saw her for over a month. The cardinal sent her out of Paris on business she would not discuss that night, and Athos didn’t get a chance to ask her about it again. The return of Aramis’s lost comrade, Marsac, from the disaster that had been Savoy occupied their energies and emotions for longer than was healthy, and by Porthos’s birthday, Aramis was still tormented by memories and nightmares from Marsac’s death. Athos had hoped the celebration of their friend’s birthday would ease Aramis’s tensions a little but instead, things grew even worse. Aramis was forced once again to work frantically to clear a brother’s name to spare him from execution, a task made more difficult by Porthos’s disappearance into the Court of Miracles.

Even when Porthos had returned, his name cleared, Aramis could not settle. Athos tried his best to help, talking for hours with his friend, trying to rationalise the strange losses of concentration, the lapses in memory that afflicted Aramis seemingly at the slightest provocation. But only Porthos knew how to deal with him, having supported him for nearly a year after Savoy. “Leave him to me,” he told Athos. “He just needs time to sort his head out.”

“I wish to help, if I can.”

“You can’t. Just keep covering for him, keep the captain off his back.”

“Will he recover?” Athos asked. He knew little about the treatment for this affliction, not uncommon in soldiers, which some called cowardice but which he knew was not.

“Give him time. At least there ain’t no more Savoy survivors to return and fuck him up.”

Only Treville, Athos thought. The captain could not help but be a reminder of that appalling loss. As was the cardinal. Athos felt free to loathe the man with renewed vigour once his role in the massacre had been exposed.

While Porthos and Aramis spent so much time secluded while Aramis fought the demons in his mind, d’Artagnan was thrown onto Athos’s patience and time. The lad didn’t bear an obvious grudge for Athos’s ill-received words at Le Havre, but it created a reserve in their interactions that Athos deeply regretted. It didn’t help that d’Artagnan’s innocent questions about Porthos’s role in the death of Jean de Mauvoisin had angered an already unbalanced Aramis who had promptly bitten the lad’s head off over it.

D’Artagnan had been very guarded in any further dealings with Aramis after that, afraid to upset his friend even more. It left the lad unable to confide in any of his brothers. Only in training did Athos feel d’Artagnan let down his protective wall, release his true spirit. Once they were done, he retreated behind his defences again, returning to the Bonacieux house, and declining Athos’s invitations to join him for a meal or wine.

Aramis slowly improved and by the height of summer, when the king delighted in getting out of the palace as often as possible, he was back to his old self as far as anyone who didn’t know him could tell. Anne, returned from her journeys, said what Athos suspected. “He’ll bury it deep, and if he’s lucky, it won’t trouble him too often. But it will never go away, Olivier.”

“You’re speaking from experience.”

She touched the knife scar on her neck, the one she'd received from Thomas, and which she habitually hid under a choker or other decoration. “The events of that day, and having to leave as a fugitive, are not things one easily forgets. They haunt my dreams, and they changed my reactions. They changed me. You complain I am not as I was when you knew before. How could I be? How can Aramis be? You ask too much of us.”

He kissed her hand, then the scar. “I’m sorry. I wish I could help.”

“You can’t. Let the memories die. Everything that revives them, in however unlikely a way, refreshes them. Give them life. Then we begin all over again to try to kill them.”

“You, Aramis, you’re so strong. One would imagine nothing could trouble you. I know I’m weak. It doesn’t surprise me when my thoughts besiege me. But you were always better than me.”

“Oh, my darling. Strength and weakness has nothing to do with it. You don’t help him, or me, comparing us that way.”

He took her onto his lap then, and held her, at a loss for words to express how much he regretted all that had happened to her through his family. And all that had happened to Aramis when he should have had his King’s and his captain’s support.

“Can you tell me where you’ve been?”

“No. But I suspect you’ll work it out soon enough.”

“Another of the cardinal’s schemes? Against the musketeers?”

“Yes, and no. But I’m sure he’ll involve you if he can. He’s decided keeping you out of Paris is one way of letting his Red Guards shine.”

“They fear comparison, with good cause.”

She laughed. “Indeed they do. Now, my dear Olivier, take me to bed and teach me some of these naughty things you learned while we were apart.”

The following day Athos wondered if the apparently routine duty Aramis and d’Artagnan were given, to retrieve a woman and child from a country parish, had anything to do with Anne’s travels. His suspicion was confirmed while he was on guard duty with Porthos and Treville later that same day, when Marie de Medici crashed into the royal hunting party, and the subsequent turmoil turned out to be very much connected to the woman and her baby.

Aramis became far too emotional over the business and put himself at too much risk for them, but in saving the two, he found a salvation of his own, or so it seemed to Athos. For the first time since Marsac’s death, the four brothers spent an evening in the tavern where Athos could detect no holding back, no fear of giving or receiving hurt. Hurt there was, as Aramis spoke of his desire, one he now believed doomed, to have a family, and d’Artagnan told them of how Constance’s maternal instincts had been woken by rescuing baby Henri. But it was pain shared, and thus pain lessened. It was dealt to them not by one of their own, but simple fate, and could be discussed by all of them without offence.

D’Artagnan walked with Athos back to his lodgings, though the Bonacieux house lay in the other direction. “Is something the matter?” Athos asked.

“Can I talk to you? Privately?”

“Come upstairs.”

His room was not one which could easily host visitors, but Athos sat on his bed and invited d’Artagnan to sit on his armour chest. “So what’s troubling you?”

D’Artagnan looked at the floor. “Before we went to Le Havre I followed you to your mistress’s address. I made enquiries and was told that Milady de Winter lives there. Yesterday, I saw the woman who killed that Spaniard at the inn I stayed in, before I came looking for you. Constance says she goes by the name of de Winter. Milady de Winter. She’s a customer of Bonacieux’s. Your mistress is the one who murdered that man. I’m sorry to bring you bad news.”

“Who have you told about this?”

“No one, not even Constance. Athos, we have to arrest her. She’s a criminal.”

“She works for Richelieu, actually. Which isn't to say she’s not a criminal, but she was working for him that day.”

“You _knew_? How? How could you...she works for our enemy!” In his agitation, d’Artagnan rose and his voice grew very loud.

Athos held up his hand. “Peace, d’Artagnan, and keep your voice down. She and I are long acquainted, since before I was married.”

“But she works—”

“I know. She knows I know, and that I disapprove. But there are circumstances which explain it. I must ask you to trust me that her reasons are sufficient for me, for now. She can help protect us against his schemes, because she’ll tell me if he plots against us again.”

“She didn’t warn you the first time.”

“She didn’t _know_ , d’Artagnan. She had no idea I was Athos. She knows me by my real name.”

“Your _real_ name? Another secret we’re not worthy to be told, I see.” D’Artagnan sat again, but wouldn’t meet Athos’s eyes.

“I was born Olivier d’Athos. When I walked away from the estate, I didn’t want to be known by my old name. Aramis uses another name for his own reasons. Many soldiers do. It’s not a personal slight against you or anyone else. Now, is that all that was troubling you?”

“Yes. Athos, I keep thinking about your words that night. About not following you, and the path you’re on. Don’t you want to be happy?”

Athos sat back, bemused. “I _am_ happy. As much as I expect to be at least. I have my lover, I have my friends. I have my job. There are things I wished for once that I will not now have, like a family, but there’s no point in crying over that.”

“But your lover is a killer. Your job forces you to work for the cardinal. Why can’t you have a family, even if it’s not with your wife?”

“How is this your business?”

“I want you to be happy, Athos. Really happy. The way you spoke of your future was so...so empty.”

“You worry too much, and I exaggerated to make a point. I was low after returning to my house, and I spoke more forcefully than I meant to. You don’t need to be concerned on my account, nor about my lover.”

“Are you sure?”

“Quite sure. Now go home and get some proper sleep. We did good work today, and frustrated a woman far more venal and dangerous than the cardinal.”

“We saved a baby and his mother. That’s what means the most to me.”

“That too. Something to be proud of. Something you can be _happy_ about.” Athos climbed to his feet. “Now, are we friends once more?”

D’Artagnan stood. “We were always friends.”

“Friends without reservations.”

The lad hugged him in his usual generous way. “No reservations. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Athos said against his ear, before stepping away. “One thing. My relationship with this woman must not become known, do you understand? The cardinal would have us both killed. No one must know. Not even Aramis and Porthos. It would endanger them too.”

“I won’t say a word.”

“Good. Now, go home. Goodnight.”

D’Artagnan smiled and left. Athos shook his head as he shut the door behind him. Oh to be young again, with the energy to waste worrying about foolish old men and their affairs.

But he had to warn Anne that at least one other person knew about them. D’Artagnan was hardly an adept at discovering secrets, and if he could do so easily, others could too. Athos didn’t know how he could protect Anne if that happened, but if she knew the danger, she could prepare. And he would also prepare to leave Paris and take her away, if that was the only option left to them. Her life before his own, he swore.


	6. Chapter 6

Anne became unavailable again, so Athos could only wait for another of her notes. An unfortunate death of a young woman, Thérèse Dubois, under the wheels of the royal couple’s carriage as she tried to hand the queen a note, and the subsequent disappearance of the girl’s friend, Fleur Bodin, sent them to the house of Comtesse Ninon de Larroque, a woman Athos had seen at the palace but never spoken to. She clearly knew _him_ , and Athos suspected she knew who he really was from the way she spoke to him. He had to admit that were he still living on his estate, and in search of a wife, he would have paid court to Ninon with pleasure, though with little hope of success. But he was not, and had an attachment to another he valued far more, so he politely ignored her flirting and dodged her attempt to kiss him, though he accepted her invitation to supper so he could question her further.

They never made it to supper. Athos took her to view Thérèse’s body at the mortuary, hoping to arouse some guilt in Ninon and persuade her to reveal Fleur’s location. Although Ninon was distressed, she said nothing helpful. On their return to her house, they discovered the Red Guards ransacking the library and looking for the missing Fleur and other girls.

Disappointingly, they found them. Athos had thought better of Ninon than that. She was arrested and taken for trial as a witch. Though Ninon had lied to him and brought her arrest upon herself, Athos was disgusted by the cardinal’s bloodthirsty choices, Aramis more so that it was ostensibly in the name of the religion he held so dear.

The mockery of a trial was held with unseemly haste and with no pretence of justice. If it were not that it affected Ninon, Athos would have spared himself the hypocrisy and viciousness, and gone off to do something more wholesome, like mucking out the garrison stable. But Aramis was determined to support Ninon, and that alone ensured Athos and Porthos’s presence, though d’Artagnan had gone to see Constance and was spared the excruciating nonsense.

Fleur Bodin was called to give evidence, and bravely stood up to Richelieu’s shameless bullying. But then a woman in black, her face hidden by a fan, came forward and was addressed as Madame de la Chappelle. When she spoke, accusing Ninon of drugging her, Athos turned from his whispered conversation with Aramis at the back of the assembly. He knew that voice as well as his own. Horrified, desperately hoping he was wrong, he moved towards the front while Anne—for she was ‘Madame de la Chappelle’—claimed Ninon had practiced perversion and witchcraft.

Unable to stay quiet even to preserve Anne’s secret, beside himself with anger, Athos screamed at the court. “This woman is a liar. She is not even who she claims to be. She is a convicted criminal and deceiver!”

Anne turned to look at him, and all he saw in her eyes was a false lack of recognition. “She is not to be trusted!” Aramis and Treville tried to quiet him, while the cardinal demanded he be restrained. He could only glare at Anne walking past him with defiant eyes, helpless to prevent Ninon being convicted of witchcraft. If it hadn’t been for the queen, Ninon would have been taken to the pyre immediately.

Athos went outside, unable to stand being in the same space with these foul people any more, and so missed the satisfying spectacle of Richelieu collapsing and nearly dying. Since, sadly, Aramis saved the evil man’s life, and they were tasked with finding out who had nearly killed him, Athos could do no more about Anne. He resisted his brothers’ questions about ‘Madame de la Chappelle’, because even now he wanted to give Anne a chance to explain herself. But as they discovered the true origin of the poison and raced to save Ninon’s life, he wrestled with trying to understand how the Anne he knew and loved could have done something so ghastly at all, let alone to another woman.

Athos never knew whether it was belated conscience, or some kind of gratitude which allowed his pleas for mercy to sway Richelieu’s mind, but Ninon, the pyre’s flames licking at her feet, was spared from death. Since she was left without title or fortune, it was a twisted generosity that Athos could only be thankful for when compared to what might have been her fate. The Musketeers were charged with escorting her from the city, and into exile. Athos couldn’t tell Ninon the truth about Anne, but accepted her warnings to take care concerning her as nothing more than the truth.

He begged his brothers’ a day’s indulgence before he answered their questions, and went direct from the garrison to Anne’s building, pounding the door of her apartment until she answered and shoving his way in before she could reproach him for coming when he had not been invited. “How could you? How could you lie and send an innocent woman to her death?”

She looked at him coolly, like he was a stranger who meant nothing to her. “I was ordered to do so. Don’t tell me you’ve never done anything distasteful because you were ordered to.”

“I have never lied to pervert justice. I have never sent an innocent person to their death by my false words. Anne, that was disgusting and immoral even by Richelieu’s standards. How could you? You could have come to me.”

“I could have. What would you have done if I had?”

“I would have warned her!”

“And that would have put me in danger. I saw you at her house. I was there.”

Athos stopped, momentarily confused. “Yes? What of it?”

“I saw her flirting with you. You flirting back.”

Athos stared. “I did no such thing. Did you do this hateful thing because you were _jealous_?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It was simply an observation.” She walked away and stood at the window.

“I don’t understand you. I don’t even _know_ you. Once this would have been impossible for you to do to anyone, let alone another woman.”

“People change, Athos. I’ve told you before. My life is not my own. I do what he says or he will get rid of me in a quite fatal manner.”

“I could have got you away, if you were given something to do you couldn’t stomach. I would have left Paris and run away. I’ve offered to do it before.”

She turned. “And I refused. I still refuse. I don’t want to live as a fugitive again, or on a pittance.”

“You’re happy for Ninon to live that way.”

“A woman of immense privilege and wealth who used it to fill the heads of silly girls with ideas above their station and their abilities? She was playing with living dolls. What did she care if those children went on to lead unhappy, dissatisfied lives because they could never achieve the fantasies she spun for them.”

“So you did it out of spite and jealousy. You ruined her because she had what you did not. I never dreamed I could feel this way about you, but I do. You disgust me, Anne.”

For the first time, he felt his words hurt her. “So if I don’t perform like a trained monkey when you tug my chain, you abandon me?’

“For God’s sake, Anne! I didn’t abandon you when you killed my _brother_. I didn’t abandon you when I found you were a callous assassin. But this...you have gone past my capacity to forgive, to understand. I will not be with a woman so devoid of feeling, so devoid of compassion. We're finished.”

She clutched her robe to her. “We can never be finished with each other, Athos. You love me and I love you.”

“Goodbye, Anne.”

Athos left the apartment and walked swiftly toward his lodgings, his mind blank, but his heart heavy and painful in his chest. As if under a spell, he found himself not at his home but at the Wren. Out of long habit he ordered wine, and the cup was in his hand before he considered what he was doing. He put it down, even though drink would do something towards easing the agony in his chest. It would be back again in the morning, and the next morning. And the next. His life was now as empty as he had believed it to be before Anne returned to his life. Now he had no hope of her being restored to him. He did not _want_ her restored to him. Nothing could undo what she had done, not this time.

Had he made her like this, by sending her away alone and forcing her to become a prostitute by another name? Had it been her brother, raping her, or his own, trying to? If Athos had had a hand in changing the bright, loving, sweet girl he had fallen in love with at the age of eighteen, into a cold, merciless killer and liar twelve years later, that was a sin for which he could never atone. A loss he would never stop grieving for.

“Athos?”

His head came up with a jerk. “D’Artagnan? What are you doing here?”

“Bonacieux came home. I didn’t feel like being there all evening.” He sat down. “Are you drinking that? Mind if I share?”

Athos shoved his cup over to the lad. “No, have it. I don’t know what I’m doing here. I should go.”

D’Artagnan frowned and put his hand on Athos’s wrist to prevent him rising. “Is something wrong? You look dreadful.”

The young man had sat down with a huge smile on his face, but now it had been erased by Athos's sourness. Athos roused himself from his melancholy. “It’s nothing. You look as if you have news.”

“I told her. I told Constance I love her, and she loves me! I’m the luckiest man in the world.”

“I’m sure her husband is equally overjoyed.”

“Love doesn’t care who’s married or not.”

“Clearly.” Athos regretted giving his cup of wine to the boy. “I’m not good company tonight. I should leave.”

“Please don’t.”

Athos paused as he was rising. “Why?”

“Because you’re upset about something and I’d like to help. You have friends. Is it about Ninon de Larroque? Aramis was furious about the whole matter.”

“Did he mention the woman who gave evidence at her mockery of a trial?”

D’Artagnan’s brow wrinkled as he thought. “He mentioned you recognised someone....” His eyes widened. “Athos, it wasn’t Milady, was it?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“How? Why would she do such a thing? Was she not worried you would expose her?”

“I almost did. I‘ve ended things with her, but....”

“It hurts.”

“Yes.” Athos rubbed at his eyes. The pain in his heart had grown, however impossible that was. “I don’t—”

“Here.” D’Artagnan pushed the wine back at him. “You need this more than I do.”

Athos looked at him. “There will never be enough wine to drown this. And when I have poisoned myself, lost my position in the regiment, the regard of anyone who had ever thought well of me, and my sanity, I will still remember what she looked like when I asked how she could do such a thing.”

“What did she say?”

“That she was following Richelieu’s orders, just as I follow the king’s orders. She couldn’t see there was a difference. I realised I don’t know who she is any more. It’s as if she’s died,” he whispered.

D’Artagnan put his hand on Athos’s wrist again. “I’m sorry.” Athos nodded, unable to trust his voice. “You still love her.”

“I don’t know. Everything I thought I believed has been turned on its head.”

D’Artagnan’s thumb rubbed on his wrist, soothing him. “You don’t deserve this.”

“Who does?”

“Her employer, for one.”

Athos frowned a warning at him, though D’Artagnan had been discreet. He was right, but Richelieu was incapable of being hurt this way, because that would mean he had a heart to be broken.

“Does it help to talk about this?” D’Artagnan asked.

“Not really. Not now.”

“Do you want me to leave?”

“I should—”

“Athos, you were here first. Do you want company or not?”

“Yes.” Athos was surprised by his own answer. “But you don’t have to—”

“I think I do.” D’Artagnan tightened his grip on Athos’s wrist. “I was so happy when I came here, and your world has just fallen apart. How can it be that one person be so full of joy, and his friend so miserable, all in the same hour?”

“Our lives are not yoked together so tightly.”

“Sometimes I think they are. Athos, this doesn’t mean you will never love again. Aramis said you seemed very taken with Ninon.”

“Ninon deserved better than me. She deserved more than what happened to her.”

“And what do you deserve? You speak as if your happiness is of no importance. Who raised you to believe that? Your father? Did your mother not give you any belief that you have a right to a good life?”

The bright anger in the boy’s eyes almost made Athos smile at his innocence. “Who raised you to believe that life is fair, D’Artagnan?”

“I was raised to believe that God wants good things for his children, and for us to live in the sunshine of his love.”

Athos snorted in amusement, and took a sip of wine to save himself from laughing outright. “I was raised to believe I was a disappointment to my father, and that my mother died too early for her to realise what a useless son she had birthed. Not much sunshine there.”

“If your father weren’t dead, I’d challenge him to a duel. He was wrong and heartless. You’re a good man, and you deserve a second chance. A second, a third, as many as you want. If not Ninon, another woman can give you joy. I know it.”

Athos shook his head. “No, I’m done with love and romance. If she...if _she_ can be so flawed and I not realise it, then I would never dare give my heart to another. Clearly my judgement is worthless.”

“Have you made such a mistake before?”

“Yes.”

“Another woman?”

“No.” Athos stared into the wine cup. “A man. My brother, in fact.” With an effort he straightened up and looked at the boy. “Forgive me. This is too maudlin and self-indulgent of me.” He stood. “Good night. I’ll speak with you in the morning.”

He walked out of the tavern, disgusted with himself for inflicting his sorry self on D’Artagnan when he was enjoying the sweet flush of first young love. Such a time did not come twice to a man, and D’Artagnan should enjoy it while he could.

“Athos, wait.”

Athos ignored D’Artagnan’s call, and kept walking. He had to stop when D’Artagnan’s handed fell on his shoulder, unless he wanted to shrug it off. “D’Artagnan, go home.”

“No. You shouldn’t be alone. It’s like when Aramis was afflicted with his battle sickness. Porthos never left him alone for a moment.”

“I am not sick, merely disappointed. In any event, I don’t need you to hold my hand.”

“You won’t....”

“Won’t what?” Athos asked, puzzled.

“Won’t do anything to...you wouldn’t kill yourself over this, would you?”

Athos couldn’t stop himself this time. He laughed, startling his companion who doubtless thought he had lost his mind. “Oh D’Artagnan. You have no idea. You think this is the worst thing to ever happen to me, but it’s not. No, my dear, kind friend, this is just one more in a long line of miserable events in my life, all of which derive from the fact I was born to a role for which I had no talent and less taste. Killing myself over this would be a waste of a pistol ball or a sharpened knife. I shall endure until someone else decides to put me out of their misery, or the sweating sickness carries me off, or the cardinal concocts another plan to put me in front of a firing squad. You need not be afraid of me walking to my own lodgings tonight.”

He thought that would reassure d’Artagnan, but the boy looked utterly stricken, and before Athos could stop him, had gathered him into his arms and hugged him tightly. “Don’t,” d’Artagnan whispered. “If she what you say she is, she’s not worth your life. I won’t lose you over someone like that. I can’t bear the thought of it.”

Athos patted his back helplessly, unsure what to say or do that wouldn’t upset his friend even more. “You won’t lose me, I promise. I’ve survived all this time, six years with the Red Guard and the king’s enemies trying to kill me, the active hatred of the criminals and ne’er-do-wells of Paris, and every fever and plague and blight to pass through this city. I swear I might be very close to immortal after all that.”

D’Artagnan half sobbed, half-laughed next to his ear. “When you put it like that, maybe you are immortal.”

“Indeed. So will you please let me go home to cry into my pillow, while you go home to think of Constance? I promise you will see me tomorrow. I have to tell the others what you already know about her.”

“Oh God. Treville will kill me.”

“No, he’ll kill me. You, he’ll merely set to cleaning the stables until you’re eighty.” He patted D’Artagnan’s back again. “Now, goodnight. Don’t follow me.”

“I won’t. Just remember you promised.”

Athos nodded and turned. This time he walked away without interference. Strangely, it was also with a slightly lighter heart, though the facts of the situation were the same and just as miserable. Perhaps the boy was right and he might have another chance one day. Doubtful, but he’d given up predicting his future. There was no profit in it at all.


	7. Chapter 7

The discussion with Treville and his brothers about Anne went slightly better than Athos predicted, since the captain didn’t kill him or order punishment duty. On the other hand, Athos’s ears would probably ring for eternity with the force of the man’s shouting.

“You were sleeping with one of the Cardinal’s spies and you somehow failed to tell me this, Athos?”

“I slept with her too,” D’Artagnan offered, perhaps as a way of taking some of the blame away from his lieutenant.

“You’re not a Musketeer.”

“Yet.” The lad’s chin tilted defiantly.

“Ever, if you keep this up. Athos, have you lost your mind? How do you come to even know this woman? And what possessed you to betray us in this way.”

Aramis watched him with understanding eyes, but Porthos was grimly and silently resentful of the lie. Athos felt worse than he had the night before, which he hadn’t imagined possible. “I’ve known her for many years, from Pinon. I wanted to marry her, but my father refused to allow it, so I married another. Years later, my brother...assaulted her and she killed him in self-defence.”

“Assaulted?” Aramis said.

“Tried to rape her.” D’Artagnan stared in shock, but kept quiet, thankfully. “But he was a nobleman and she only the illegitimate daughter of a gentleman, so as the local magistrate, I had to condemn her to death.”

“Athos,” Aramis breathed. “No.”

“Sadly, yes. But I helped her escape and deflected those searching for her. I never saw her again until the night after...the morning I was to be shot. She told me that, all unknowing, she had suggested to the cardinal that ‘Athos’ would be a suitable target for his schemes. She didn’t know I was Athos.”

“She lied,” Porthos said. “To escape blame.”

“No, she was genuinely distressed. I forgave her, and she promised to always tell me if the cardinal did something similar again against me or any of us. She was our ally, I believed.”

“Meanwhile she was killing Spaniards and leaving me to take the blame, and perjuring herself,” D’Artagnan said.

Treville turned on him. “You knew about this?”

Athos raised a hand. “D’Artagnan discovered the identity of my mistress a little while ago, Captain, quite accidentally. I asked him to remain silent to keep her safe. The fault is mine.”

“No, it’s his _and_ yours. Now this spy of the cardinal knows our secrets, our weaknesses.”

“No. She knows mine, no others.”

“Same thing,” Porthos muttered. “He can attack us through you like he did before.”

Athos had to admit this was true. “Be that as it may, the facts remain the same, and we must decide how to deal with them. I have broken things off with her, and she might bear a grudge over that.”

“‘Might’?” Aramis said. “You have given a dangerous and immoral woman a powerful reason to destroy you.”

“She’s not like that.”

D’Artagnan looked at Athos. “She is, you know. She was willing to destroy me for no reason at all. How much more would she want to do that to you?”

“She won’t.”

Porthos straightened. “I say we should kill her. She’s a murderer and a perjurer.”

“Without a trial? You’re no better than Richelieu,” Athos snapped. Porthos glared at him, but Athos refused to back down.

“Enough, both of you.” Treville scowled. “There will be no killing. But I will warn all of our men and tell them she works for him”

“He’ll kill her,” Athos said.

“Good,” Porthos replied without a hint of shame. “She needs killing. Better at his hand than ours.”

“Porthos,” Aramis murmured.

“I’ve made a decision, Athos, and that’s final. She brought it on her own head and I won’t allow a single man of mine to die from ignorance. I’m ordering you to stay away from her, is that clear?”

“Yes.” Anne would already believe Athos had told everyone her secret, so he hardly needed to warn her. But he mourned for her probable death nonetheless. He would always love her, even if he couldn’t bear to be with her. This would pain him forever.

“Then, you’re all dismissed. Unless anyone else is hiding any other devastating secrets from the rest of us?”

“The captain’s pleased,” Aramis said as they descended the stairs.

“I’m bloody not,” Porthos said. “What else haven’t you told us, Athos?”

“Nothing. You know all my sordid secrets now and can make merry with them. Excuse me, gentlemen.”

He walked away, but wasn’t all that surprised to hear the thud of footsteps coming up behind him. “Athos, wait.”

“What is it, d’Artagnan?”

“I just wanted to say...I’m sorry about your brother.”

“He died for trying to rape a woman.”

“That’s what I’m sorry for. It must be awful to know that about someone you loved.”

“It is. I’m sorry, my friend, but I need to be alone.”

D’Artagnan put his hand on Athos’s shoulder. “I understand. But if you want someone to talk to, I’m always willing to listen.”

Athos smiled a little. “Thank you. Go to Porthos. He needs you more than I do right now.”

D’Artagnan gave him a long, searching look as if to assess the truth of that statement, then nodded and turned around. Athos actually would have welcomed his company, but he didn’t know if he could talk about the issue in hand. Athos only wanted to sit somewhere and not talk about it. Not think about it, if he could help it.

He went to the stables, to the only company that had been faithful and honest for all the time Athos had enjoyed it. Roger whickered to him as he came close, suspecting Athos had kept an apple back from breakfast, as he had. He cut it up with his dagger and fed it to the stallion. “What do I do now, old friend, hmmm?” Roger accepted the fruit but kept his counsel, which only proved he was wiser than any man. What advice would be welcome in this situation? None, of course. But Roger offered comfort and company, and thought d’Artagnan would have been more welcome, that didn’t mean Athos wouldn’t accept his horse’s cupboard love.

He stayed with his horse until Aramis came to look for him. “Captain has orders for us. Are you all right, Athos?”

“I’ve been better. Porthos?”

“He’ll forgive you. And d’Artagnan. But he doesn’t like us lying to him, you know that.”

“I know. I’ll talk to him. Do you believe Anne...Milady will exact revenge? She once loved me as I do her.”

“All the more reason, I’m afraid. I don’t know her, but I would warn you to watch your back, my friend. We all will have to.”

“That’s comforting.”

As the weather grew damper, so did Porthos’s anger. Athos heard nothing from Anne, nor a word about her. For all he knew, she had left Paris, and if she had, he would be glad of it. Their duties became routine and palace-bound as the king withdrew to the comforts of the Louvre. Treville didn’t like it being quiet. Bored musketeers tended to get into trouble, and this was proved merely a two week later when a prisoner escort turned into a brawl, ending up with a dead Red Guard captain and a furious cardinal demanded the head of a Musketeer—any would do—in revenge.

Being a Musketeer himself, Treville was not immune to the disease of boredom, and issued a rash challenge to the cardinal that his best Red Guard could not beat any Musketeer Treville chose to put up against him. The garrison was gleeful at the news—less so over the thirty livres entry fee, of course—and none more than Athos, who knew this was d’Artagnan’s chance to win the commission he craved, and by now, richly deserved. That this came at the same time as the lad learned their former prisoner, the Intendant of Gascony, Martin LaBarge, had destroyed D’Artagnan’s farm and thus his only source of income, meant winning the right to be the champion was more imperative than ever. D’Artagnan needed a salary even more than he needed to be a part of the regiment.

Athos would have offered to give him money, certainly the entry fee, but Aramis warned him not to. “The boy is proud and he will be insulted if you do this.”

“What if he can’t raise the funds?”

“Then you can offer. But let him try, at least.”

Kindly meant, no doubt, but like much of Aramis’s advice, not particularly helpful. Athos had begun working on d’Artagnan’s weakest point—his overly emotional response in a fight—and tossed everything he could at the lad to evoke such a response so that he could school him out of it. Unfortunately, goading D’Artagnan with the fact that LaBarge was in the Bastille, as befitted a man of high rank, albeit one soon to be executed once convicted, instead of in the Chatelet as suited LaBarge’s venal and vicious nature, resulted in a much stronger reaction than Athos had planned.

D’Artagnan stormed off from the Garrison, spitting anger at Treville as he did so. The captain knew what Athos was trying to do, and told him to watch the boy, which Athos would have done anyway. He attempted to join d’Artagnan on his way to the palace to speak to the cardinal, a task bound to fail, but d’Artagnan, still angry over the training, sent him away. “I can handle this. I’m not a child.”

“Then try not acting like one,” Athos said. “What do you think this will achieve?”

“I want justice. The cardinal is preventing that.”

“And you think the cardinal, a man willing to send an innocent woman to the pyre so he could steal her fortune, gives a damn about justice?”

“I’ll make him listen to me. Leave me alone, Athos!” He set his horse to galloping, and Athos declined to chase after him.

D’Artagnan returned to the garrison later that day with his head still attached to his shoulders, but in such a foul and uncooperative mood, Athos took it on himself to dismiss him for the day. “Go home, cool off. Do not return unless you can bring a calmer demeanour and a less turbulent heart.”

D’Artagnan turned wounded eyes on him. “I thought you wanted me to win.”

“I do. I also don’t want you to kill or injure any of your brothers or yourself. You are in no fit state to train. Go home and let Constance soothe your injured pride.”

That jab was unworthy of him, Athos knew, but he was unsettled himself by D’Artagnan’s hostility, and how little the boy had learned after almost a year with them. There was none braver in battle, few faster or better with the sword, and certainly no recruit in Athos’s experience had showed such promise, but his temper and pride were fatal flaws. D’Artagnan had to master them if he wanted to realise his dream.

Treville took a cup of wine with Athos in his office that evening, after supper. “It’s not your fault if he won’t listen,” his captain told him.

“It is. If I were a better teacher, I could make him understand.”

“You can’t change his fundamental nature, Athos. We Gascons are proud people. D’Artagnan has yet to understand that his personal honour is not, in fact, the most important virtue.”

“I should talk to him again. Perhaps he’s calmed down.”

Treville lifted his cup to him. “I salute your patience, if not your common sense. He’ll only throw it back at you.”

“I don’t think so.” At least, Athos hoped not.

He took himself to the Bonacieux household, and was forced to be polite to the monsieur before he could ask Constance where their lodger might be. “He said something about seeing a man about a farm. He wouldn’t tell me more, Athos.” She was clearly worried but could not say more in front of her husband.

“Why should he?” Monsieur Bonacieux demanded. “If the man is foolish enough to roam the streets of Paris at night, the streets will teach him a lesson. Is that not true, Monsieur Athos?”

Athos forced a smile onto his face. “Perhaps. I bid you goodnight, _monsieur, madame_.” D’Artagnan could have only meant one thing with those cryptic words. Athos prayed he was wrong and that the boy would not have been so damn stupid.

But he had been exactly that stupid, and Athos was only just in time to prevent LaBarge killing their recruit with his bare hands. Getting him out of the prison without being challenged took the full force of Athos’s aristocrat manner and his position in the regiment to achieve. They ran out into the pouring rain and as soon as they reached shelter, Athos upbraided the idiot for his behaviour.

“What did I tell you about thinking before you act?”

“I couldn't help it. I'm not like you.”

D’Artagnan thought Athos was calm and rational? If only that were true. “You are. More than you know. Come on. Get some rest. We'll train tomorrow.”

He delivered the boy back to the Bonacieux house. “You saved my life. Thank you.” D’Artagnan said as he stood on the doorstep. “I’m sorry.”

“You should be. He could have killed you.”

“I’m in your debt.”

“Repay it by doing better. _Think_ , D’Artagnan. You have a good brain. Use it.”

Athos went as hard on d’Artagnan the next day as he had the previous, determined to vanquish this enemy against the boy’s success, but frustratingly, though d’Artagnan did indeed keep his temper better, he still allowed himself to be distracted by Athos’s taunts. Athos found his sword against D’Artagnan’s throat in far too little time. Athos shared a look of frustration with the captain before tapping D’Artagnan’s shoulder. “Again. Do better.”

“I’m trying.”

“Try harder. It’s not good enough. _You’re_ not good enough.”

Another glare from those soulful eyes, but Athos refused to relent. Soft soldiers died in battle, and this _would_ be a battle.

D’Artagnan never spoke a word about the money, and since Aramis and Porthos were both pursuing their entry fees in a disreputable manner Athos refused to contemplate, he couldn’t ask Aramis to gently interrogate the lad. But on the morning of the selection trials, all three of his brothers produced thirty livres apiece.

“Where did you get yours?” Athos asked D’Artagnan after he handed it over.

“Found a patron of my own,” he said. Athos frowned at him. Who did D’Artagnan know who would give him that kind of sum? “I need to speak to you later,” d’Artagnan whispered discreetly under cover of the teasing from the others. “Porthos won’t like it.”

 _God, no._ He wouldn’t have, would he?

But the trials were starting, and Athos had to give the contest his full attention. Gratifyingly, D’Artagnan performed as well as Athos could have hoped. Better, in fact. Athos knew full well that none of the other Musketeers, not even he himself, could fight in all three disciplines as well, as tirelessly and with such cheeky humour as this young man. He was confident Treville would see it that way.

“I was good enough, wasn’t I?” D’Artagnan demanded after they had been dismissed for the day, and they were in the tavern for the private word D’Artagnan said he wanted. Aramis was off with one of his regular paramours, and surprisingly Porthos was also engaged in the pursuit of female company. Athos hoped he wouldn’t have his heart broken on top of everything else he had endured in his life.

“You did well. Not perfectly, but well enough for a youth. Where did you get thirty livres?”

“Milady de Winter.”

Athos hissed in a breath. “D’Artagnan, you didn’t ask—”

“No, I didn’t. She came to me on the street and handed me a pouch with the coin in it. She said to tell you it’s by way of an apology. I wouldn’t have accepted it otherwise.”

“How did she seem?”

“Cool. A little sad, I thought. Hard to tell with her. I told her she disgusted me and she said she understood, but I still needed to win this contest. For you, she said. Is it a game of hers, do you think?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did I do the wrong thing? The money could have come from the cardinal.”

“Then he can well afford it. As can she.” Athos could see no way this benefited the cardinal, or Anne herself except, as she claimed, if it was an apology. “You did the right thing, but now you have to keep working. If Treville accepts you, you will have only a day or two at most to make your final preparations, and it will be in front of the king. The honour of the regiment is the only thing that matters in this, and that will rest on your shoulders. Make a fool of yourself by behaving foolishly or in ill-temper, and you disgrace us all.”

“I keep telling you, I’m not a child, Athos.”

“I’m not speaking to a child, d’Artagnan. I’m speaking to what I hope very soon will be a new Musketeer.”

The boy’s face lit up and even in such a cynical and beaten heart as Athos’s, it set a cosy warm fire going. “I will fight for all of you. Especially you, as my best teacher.”

“Do not slight Porthos or Aramis’s efforts. You’ve benefited from the two greatest warriors I have ever met, or indeed heard of.”

“What about Treville?”

“The captain is a legend to us all, but even he bows to Aramis at the musket, and to Porthos at hand to hand.”

“And you with the sword?”

“He is my equal. Once, my better, I’m sure. He has twenty years on me, after all.”

“With all these teachers, how can I fail to win?”

By Treville choosing himself, Athos realised the next day. Of all the possible outcomes of the trials, this was not one Athos had considered even for a moment. Shouting at Treville about keeping all the glory for himself had no effect at all. Treville merely lifted an eyebrow and said, “You think this is about glory?”

Athos lost his temper, ironic since he’d spent more than a week lecturing d'Artagnan not to do that very thing. “All I know is that d'Artagnan has it in him to be a fine Musketeer, perhaps the greatest of us all. But now? We'll never know, because you have stolen his best chance to prove it.”

The captain didn’t respond, nor stop Athos from stalking out. Still bubbling with fury at the unfairness of it all, Athos found Aramis and Porthos waiting for him. “Where’s d'Artagnan?”

“Gone to tell Constance,” Porthos said. “Poor sod.”

“The captain must have his reasons,” Aramis said. Strange that _he_ should defend the man after what he learned about Savoy.

“He might do, but I can’t think of one that justifies this. D'Artagnan will see this as a cruel blow indeed.”

“Then he’ll need us to support him,” Porthos said. “I don’t care if he’s wearing a pauldron or not. He’s our brother, and earned our respect over and over.”

“Agreed,” Athos said.

“I hope Treville knows what he’s doing,” Aramis said.

Porthos nodded. “He’d better damn well win after all this.”

D'Artagnan returned that afternoon. The garrison was largely deserted with men either on duty, or sent off early by Treville. Athos had no reason to leave, and was cleaning his pistols when the lad returned, his face a picture of misery.

“Come now, d'Artagnan, you’ll have other chances to win your commission,” Athos said as d'Artagnan sat down across from him.

“It’s not that. Constance has ended things with me. She thinks I’m a failure, and now I’ll need a rich mistress since I have no income now. She called what we had a flirtation, Athos.” A tear fell down his cheek but d'Artagnan scrubbed it away impatiently. “How could she be cruel? It’s not my fault the captain decided to take the challenge himself.”

Athos considered. He had known Constance since before she was married, and she was not someone who esteemed wealth before personal feeling. On the other hand, if her husband abandoned her, d'Artagnan was not in a position to support himself, let alone her. “I suspect it’s less to do with her wishes than those of her husband. I did warn you about interfering in a marriage.”

“But I love her, and she loves me, I know it. Or I knew it. I thought I did.”

“Sometimes, more often than not in fact, a bored or unhappy married woman will seek a diversion, but will not risk her security for that dalliance. It’s unfortunate, but Constance is doing nothing that others have not done before her. You should take Aramis’s position, and do not allow affection to become a noose around your neck. Or hers.”

“Since I have lost my love and my ambitions in the one day, what more can happen? Break my leg walking home, perhaps?”

Athos raised an eyebrow. “You lack imagination. A drunken Red Guard or a petty thief could kill you. The cardinal could declare all Gascons are the work of the devil and have you burned at the stake. Serge’s cooking could poison you. And lightning’s always possible, since I see storm clouds above.”

D'Artagnan laughed despite his misery. “You’re right. I didn’t think of any of those possibilities.” But then his expression fell again. “Maybe it would be a blessing if they did happen.”

Athos put his hand on d’Artagnan’s arm. “I remember a young man being quite distressed at the thought of my committing suicide either by design or carelessness. Allow me to return that sentiment to you, and remind you that you told me that are other chances for love.”

“Did you believe me?”

“I can offer no proof that you were mistaken. Constance is but one woman in a city full of thousands. Hundreds of thousands, in fact. You should forget her and concentrate on your training. Once you are a Musketeer, you can find another woman to love.”

“Just like that.”

“Yes.”

“I’ll have to move out anyway. I can’t afford the rent at her house. I don’t suppose Treville would let me stay in the stables here?”

He was serious, Athos realised. “D'Artagnan, I’m certain he would help you. But I’ve been thinking of moving back to the garrison myself. You could take on my room until you have your commission.”

“I just said I can’t—”

Athos held up his hand. “I can pay the rent for you. Consider it a small contribution to my happiness.”

“How does _me_ living at your expense make _you_ happy?”

“For one, it gives me pleasure to help my friends. Second, I owe you my life—”

“You saved mine not two nights ago!”

“Yes. But if you are living in decent accommodation and not becoming sick from a cold and smelly stable, you will survive to save my life again, and I can save yours again. And thirdly, it allows me to keep the room available should living here prove uncongenial. So, you’d be doing me quite a favour if you accepted.”

“You’re sneaky. Aramis doesn’t believe it, but you are.”

Athos inclined his head in acknowledgement. “I have my moments. But I do not mean to deceive you. I meant all I said. Will you consider it?”

“All right. I should go back to the Bonacieux tonight, collect my things. The challenge is tomorrow?”

“Yes. We must support the captain whatever you think of his decision.”

D’Artagnan shrugged. “I understand his reason. He needs the best, and you said yourself he’s a legend. I’m not.”

“His reason may make sense, but I don’t believe that is it. We’re riding to the palace together, putting on a show of strength.”

“I’ll be there. I want him to win. Can I sit with you for a bit though? I want to wait until Constance is asleep before I return. I can’t face her again. Not today.”

“Of course.”

D'Artagnan produced his own pistol for cleaning, then turned to his sword. They worked in friendly silence until it became too dark and cold to continue. Then they repaired to the mess and joined the three other men still in the garrison, to risk Serge’s cooking and drink warm watered wine. D'Artagnan’s mood remained low, but he was too naturally resilient to wallow for long.

His thoughts turned to Athos’s romantic woes. “Do you think she’ll be there tomorrow?”

“Perhaps. I won’t be speaking to her.”

“She might try to speak to _me_. What should I do?”

“Whatever you please. I warn you not to fall in love with her though.”

“I don’t think that’s very likely, Athos,” d’Artagnan said, smiling wryly.

“You found her attractive enough before.”

The lad wrinkled his face in disgust. “It’s amazing how finding a bloody dagger in the pillow next to your face dampens one’s ardour.”

“Imagine that.”

“What was she like when you first met her? How did you meet...forgive me, you probably don’t want to talk about it.”

“No, it’s fine. It was a comparatively happy time in my life, and had I defied my father by marrying her, I might have saved us both a good deal of sorrow. As it is, my father’s objections did not save our lineage from expiring, so we suffered quite pointlessly.”

“You think you would have been happy, married to her?”

Athos stopped to consider. “I believe so. I hoped so. I don’t know that I could have been happy had I come to Paris first and tasted the life here, being a Musketeer. If she had come to the city first, the house and married life might seem very dull after that. Who knows? We should deal with facts as they are, not as they could have been.”

“If your wife died, you could marry her.”

“You forget the sentence of death upon her. Catherine’s father is the magistrate now in my absence. He would not be moved to pity in Anne’s case. No, we had our chance and lost it. Now we must go on separately and do what we can to be happy.”

“ _She_ won’t be happy,” d'Artagnan muttered.

“Anne?”

He shook his head. “Constance. Sorry. I keep thinking about her.”

“I suppose that’s inevitable, tonight at least.”

“I promise I won’t let it distract me.”

“If it does, you will find your misery short-lived as will you be.”

D'Artagnan smiled sadly. “Good one.”

“I’m not joking.”

“I know.” He poked the indifferent stew with his spoon. “I can’t wait for this year to end.”

Athos regarded the tired set of the lad’s shoulders, the distant look in his eyes. Usually his constant movement, his energy, disguised the sadness he carried, but it really had not been long since he had suffered the terrible loss of his father. And now his farm was gone as well. “Do you think you should return to Gascony for a few weeks? I’m not trying to get rid of you. It’s only that you never went back, and perhaps you might find it settling for you.”

“To see my home burned to the ground.”

“Ah. Yes. Bad idea.”

“No, I’d been thinking of it. Before LaBarge, of course. There’s no point now. My only home is here. Was here.”

Athos tapped the table. “Is here. Take my room, let me help. Then that’s one less distraction, one less misery. I’d like to do something that didn’t involve arresting, fighting or killing someone for the crown. Something purely for me, and a friend.”

“I can’t refuse even if I wanted to. Which I don’t. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. You could meet my landlady tonight if you like. If you have nothing better to do, I mean.”

“I don’t. Are you finished?”

“Yes. Let’s take a walk.”

Athos’s landlady, Madame Fontaine, was of a certain age, a widow, and, he suspected, with some ambition to attract his interest to her, but no more than she did with any reasonably civil, unattached man. D'Artagnan was thirty years her junior so she reacted to him as a surrogate son, not a suitor. She embraced him and told him she would be very glad to have a nice clean young man in her room, especially one who was a dear friend of Monsieur Athos. “He’s a very brave soldier, Monsieur d'Artagnan.”

“I agree, _madame_. I try to emulate him in every way.”

“Then I’ll feel very safe with you here. You are most welcome.”

Athos bowed. “Thank you, _madame_. It’s a relief to know my friend will be so well situated.”

She left them in his room. “She’s quite a character, isn’t she?” Athos said.

“She seems kind.”

“She is. She will most likely mother you severely, if you let her. Otherwise, she’ll leave you alone. You’ve seen the room before. I’ll leave the chest until I need it, unless you don’t want it. Other than that, there’s nothing to discuss, I believe. I’ve given her the rent for this month, and you can leave that all to me.”

By now, he was used to d'Artagnan’s hugs, but that made them no less welcome and kind. “Thank you. I don’t deserve your friendship.”

“You deserve all good things, my friend.” He let the lad hold him as long as he wished, because he needed it and Athos...wanted it. He would never admit how much d'Artagnan’s touches and hugs and kindness had made his life brighter, even with all the evil that had come his way.

At last, d'Artagnan released him, patting his shoulder. “I should go. I’ll be there for breakfast to ride out with you all.”

“Try to get some rest. It’ll be a long day and I fear the Red Guard will behave badly. That’s a given, of course, but I mean specifically when they lose this contest.”

“The thought of defending the regiment’s honour against their anger...will help me sleep better.”

Athos smiled. “And I as well. Goodnight.”

D'Artagnan leaned and kissed Athos’s right cheek, then the other. “Thank you.”

He left, leaving Athos standing somewhat shocked. He understood such an expression of friendship was common in Gascony, but he had not experienced it personally before, and certainly not from d'Artagnan. He touched his face, where the memory of d'Artagnan’s lips remained on his skin. Like a brand, almost. The last person to kiss him had been Ninon, in farewell. Before that, only Anne. Athos did not bestow such caresses lightly, and did not expect them from another man. His body now reacted most inappropriately.

He breathed deeply and willed everything to settle down. Oh, the Fates were surely mocking him now. Not only did they cause the love of his life to become this twisted, foul creature that Athos was forced to reject, but now they had turned Athos’s affection for a promising young man—a dear friend, indeed—into something against nature and against God’s law.

But if God had allowed it, how could it be against his law? And Athos had known men form attachments, in war and in peace, men who were as brave and honourable and worthy as Aramis and Porthos, more than Athos himself. He had never found them to be malformed or malignant in any way.

But d'Artagnan was not of that kind, to turn to his own gender. Nor was Athos. They both loved and lusted after women. This was just a strange trick of his body, like a morning erection. To give it more significance would be ridiculous.

He stripped and lay on his bed, hands clasped firmly on his chest and touching himself no lower, forcing his thoughts onto the next day, onto what would likely happen when the captain won the contest.

He most certainly did _not_ think of d'Artagnan and how dangerously important the boy had become to his own happiness.


	8. Chapter 8

D'Artagnan kept his word and was there before the others had started their breakfast. He was quiet but not sullen, and said nothing to the others about his romantic woes. Aramis noticed something was wrong, of course. “Our pup holds a grudge over this, I fear,” he murmured to Athos as they mounted up to ride to the palace.

“You’re wrong.”

Aramis gave him a doubtful look, but Athos refused to elaborate. He was proud of d'Artagnan’s lack of resentment, and strove to follow their youngest’s example. At the field, d'Artagnan made a remark which made it clear that love, not the contest, was the cause of his misery, but Aramis didn’t question him and Athos would not reveal his secret until he wished it known.

In any case, there was something of much more pressing concern unfolding. The Red Guard champion was revealed to be none other than Martin LaBarge.

“This is some sort of sick joke,” d'Artagnan said, staring at the two men facing each other.

“The Captain isn't surprised,” Aramis said, and Porthos agreed. “He knew.”

So this was what had made Treville behave so strangely. Beside Athos, d'Artagnan fairly thrummed with anger and worry, but he was not alone in that. Treville could defeat almost any soldier in a fair fight—but LaBarge was neither a soldier nor a fair fighter. That it was a fix initiated by the cardinal was confirmed when the marshal announced that the shooting and wrestling rounds were waived. Of course LaBarge would have no great skill with a musket, even if he could easily beat Treville in the wrestling. Sword was the only discipline that the cardinal could make the slightest pretence that this would be a honest competition.

The captain was at more risk than any of them could have imagined. Athos readied himself to intervene, as Aramis and Porthos did too. Damn the contest—they wouldn’t stand by and see Treville murdered before their eyes.

LaBarge fought like a thug, and used little skill and brute strength to drive their captain back. Treville responded with a brave heart and superior ability, fighting like a demon, disarming LaBarge and drew first blood in emphatic fashion. That should have won him the contest there and then, but LaBarge recovered, used his sword like a club, and drove Treville back against a fence. Once Treville was down and disarmed, LaBarge should have withdrawn and allowed the captain to recover his weapon. But he cared nothing for the protocols of the contest, stamping viciously on Treville’s shoulder and breaking it with a sickening crunch.

D'Artagnan was the first to draw his weapon and run onto the field to challenge the brute, the others right behind him. Treville tried to stop them but he had no chance of dissuading his men from protecting him or engaging the Red Guards. Only when his majesty called a halt did the mêlée stop. To Athos’s great relief, the captain was wounded but alive. The Red Guard had won, but they had to cheat to do so, and as far as Athos was concerned, they would take no honour from such a tainted ‘victory’.

But the king had other ideas, obviously irritated at being cheated of a fair and enjoyable spectacle, and allowed Treville to choose a champion in his stead. If it had been Athos choosing, having seen LaBarge in action, he would have chosen Porthos without hesitation.

But Treville chose d'Artagnan.

The choice was morally just, but Athos couldn’t help but think Treville had just handed the lad a death sentence. Nevertheless, d'Artagnan stood proud and straight, and met the sneering LaBarge with all the calmness and focus Athos could have wished. Athos, heart in his throat, watched them engage. LaBarge had d'Artagnan on the ground in short order, but the lad kept his weapon and the fight going, ignoring LaBarge’s childish taunts, and easily dealt with LaBarge’s thrusts and kicks.

In the end it was d'Artagnan’s raw skill, greater speed, and superior sense of purpose which defeated LaBarge, and if the lad took a pleasure in sending the thug who’d burned down his farm and those of many other Gascons, to hell, Athos couldn’t fault him for it.

Athos would treasure forever the queasy look on Richelieu’s face as the king proclaimed the Musketeers the winner, and not even the theft of the prize money could dull that pleasure. But a greater one was coming.

His majesty, though a foolish man in many respects, shared with Athos a great admiration for and love of loyalty, and wasn’t _so_ foolish that he couldn’t recognise that virtue in d'Artagnan. Realising what about to happen, Athos murmured at their recruit to hurry up and get on his knees, while Aramis ran back to the Musketeers tent to fetch what they had long had in readiness for just this circumstance.

The king laid a sword on d’Artagnan’s shoulder and said the words the boy and his friends had longed to hear. “I hereby commission you into my regiment of Musketeers.”

Pride for his friend and brother threatening to burst his chest, Athos bent to place the pauldron on the weeping lad. His majesty’s words floated over them. “May you serve it always with the same distinction that I witnessed today.”

Tears still ran down d’Artagnan’s face as he accepted the congratulations of his brothers and his captain. Athos wondered how much was joy, and how much was sadness that his father could not have seen this achievement. How much was that Constance had not seen it, and it was too late for d’Artagnan to prove to her that he was every bit the man he believed he was, that Athos believed he was.

He would have gone to d’Artagnan to offer a chance for him to talk, if the lad wished, but Treville needed medical attention and transport first. By the time that had been arranged, and the captain comfortably settled, d’Artagnan had disappeared.

Athos asked one of the men in the yard, and learned the lad had gone to collect his belongings. Understandable. Would he try to convince Constance he was worth another chance? Athos hoped not. Sacrificing one’s pride was often necessary, but a lover who demanded it was not worth loving.

D’Artagnan turned up not half an hour later, rushing up to Athos. “Sorry, I had to—”

Athos waved away his explanation. “I understand.”

“No, wait. Milady was outside the house in her carriage. She offered me a lift.”

“Did she say anything else?”

“I thanked her for the entry fee and she said she knew I had talent. Nothing about you.”

Athos hadn’t seen her in the crowd at the contest, but then again, he’d been concentrating on d’Artagnan so much, she could have been there all along. “She was waiting for you?”

“I don’t know. But that’s not on her route from her home to the palace, is it?”

Athos clenched his fist. How dare she interfere with them, with d’Artagnan in this manner. “Do you plan to live in the garrison?”

“I thought I should. It’s very kind of you to offer me the room, but—”

“That’s not important. Stay here. Keep away from her, out of her sight. She might come after you because of me.”

D’Artagnan frowned at him. “Why me?”

“Why not you?”

“She hates you that much? Then why give me the money?”

“Possibly to confuse me, or keep her in my thoughts. I don’t know. Anything is possible, now at least. I will live here too, but keep the room for another month or so. It might prove useful. Or convenient.”

D’Artagnan nodded. “If you want to be alone, you mean.”

“Or you do. You seemed overwhelmed before. You thoroughly deserve the honour, you realise.”

D’Artagnan smiled, though with a hint of his previous tears. “I would have preferred the captain hadn’t been injured first.”

“Yes, we all would. But nonetheless, you won fairly, and bravely, and I’m proud of you.”

The answering smile was brilliant, and with no taint of sadness. “I did it for you. For all of you, for Papa, and for Gascony. But most of all, for you. You have given me everything.”

“I gave you nothing. You merely took advantage of opportunities, and flourished because of that. But enough. Let’s seek out our new lodgings.”

Because of his rank, Athos could commandeer a tiny room at the end of the barracks. D’Artagnan would bunk with the rest of the men, but seemed happy enough about it. “I need to return to my room to fetch my armour,” Athos said.

“I’ll come with you.”

“No, stay, bask in the gratitude of your fellows. It happens rarely enough.” D’Artagnan laughed. “I’ll return for supper, and the consumption of large amounts of beer and wine, I suspect.”

What Athos didn’t tell d’Artagnan was that he wanted to pay a visit to Anne. He wrote a note in preparation in case she was not at home, but she answered his knock, smiling as if he was expected. “Athos. I’m glad you came by.”

“It’s not a social visit, Anne. Stay away from d’Artagnan. Stay away from all the Musketeers.”

Her smile turned to a sneer. “Or what? You’ll kill me?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. We protect our own, and all the men know who you are now.”

“Thanks to you.”

“Thanks to me, yes. Did you expect me to just overlook your brazen, disgusting behaviour and pretend you aren’t a threat to us? To me?”

“I’m no threat to you.”

Athos fixed her with a steady look. “Yes, you are. I can’t trust you, I can’t predict you, and I will not allow anyone else to suffer for your lack of decency. You have abandoned every good feeling, every ethical teaching, to obey your evil lord. I don’t know why, and I no longer care. You should leave Paris for your own good.”

“You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

“Then do what you what you wish, but if you contact d’Artagnan again, there will be consequences.”

“You sound as if you’re in love with the boy. He’s pretty enough, I suppose.”

Athos looked her up and down and turned away without a response. Was that how low she had come? That she would toss out such a slander against him rather than look to her own behaviour for his disgust?

“Athos, please. Don’t leave.”

He ignored her and left the building. Even the foetid stinking air of Paris was cleaner than listening to her try to convince him to stay despite his anger. Never had he imagined it possible he could loathe Anne, be revolted by her. Now it was all he felt. It was like the woman he knew had died and her body possessed by some malevolent spirit.

He collected his armour and two of his books from his room. He regretted not bringing Roger to help him carry it all but that would have meant bringing someone to watch the horse, and who had time? At the garrison, celebrations had already started in the mess, not just over d’Artagnan winning his commission, but also at the regiment’s honour being so soundly defended in front of their biggest foe.

“Did ya see ‘is face?” Blanchard said to his fellows. “Looked like ‘e was about ta bless the ground with ‘is sick.”

Athos couldn’t help smiling at the entirely accurate image. “ ‘is majesty weren’t too pleased either,” Lucas said. “Richelieu was ‘bout two inches small after that.”

“Gentlemen, I caution you not to be too critical of these personages,” Athos said. “At least where their spies might hear you.”

“Let ‘em come,” Blanchard bellowed. “We only have to send our little lad out to fight ‘em and they’ll be quaking in their boots!”

The company roared with laughter, and d’Artagnan received many claps to the shoulder—to the point that the strapping six-foot tall ‘little lad’ probably had bruises all over his back from their glad-handing.

“Athos! Over here.” Aramis waved him over to their table. “Where have you been?”

“Making a call on a person of my acquaintance, that’s all.”

“Does this person have a name?”

“She does. Don’t worry, it wasn’t to exchange pleasantries. She seems to be taking too much of an interest in our youngest. I told her to keep away.”

“I’m sure that’ll work,” Aramis said.

“It had better. With any luck she’ll leave the city soon. If not, we should be on our guard. The cardinal will be out for blood after today.”

“All his own stupid fault, recruiting a criminal to be a captain in the Red Guard,” Porthos said.

“He only recruits criminals, so why should we be surprised?” Athos said, somewhat bitterly, his thoughts still on Anne.

“Does Milady intend us harm, do you think?” Aramis said.

“Probably. I don’t want to speak of it. Give me a couple of hours to enjoy a small victory.”

Aramis saluted Athos with his wine cup, and no more was said of the matter.

As was traditional, d’Artagnan stayed up too late, drank too much, and was unfit for duty the next day. But as the captain was also incapacitated, Athos, standing in for him, ordered the bare minimum of men to guard the king and patrol the streets around the garrison, and let everyone else sleep off their hangovers. He personally was unaffected, having not wished to spoil d’Artagnan’s evening by making a fool of himself from drink, and to be able to cart their newest Musketeer back to his bunk when he had finally succumbed.

Aramis was similarly unaffected, because he was not much of a drinker, and the two of them kept the garrison under control. “Why isn’t the captain out yelling at us?” Athos asked.

“Milk of the poppy is a very good painkiller, and incidentally, helps the injured sleep. He’d earned his rest, after all.”

Athos surveyed Aramis’s falsely innocent expression. “He’s going to kill you when he realises what you’ve done.”

“When his shoulder is mended, he’s free to do so. What do you want, lad?” This last was addressed to an urchin who had entered the yard.

“Please, monsieur, I have a note for the Musketeer Athos.”

“That’s me.” The boy handed the letter over and Athos tipped him a few sou.

“Who’s it from?”

“Anne. Milady.” He recognised her hand and the small drawing of a cornflower on the back. The scent was a clue as well. He tore it open and read.

“What does she want?”

Once Athos would have suffered torture rather than allow anyone else see one of her letters to him, but now he handed it over to Aramis without a jot of conscience. His friend read it, then looked at him. “Do you believe her?”

“I wish I could. Once, unhesitatingly. Now...I need proof.”

“Are you going to reply?”

“No. If she’s serious, then not replying won’t change her mind. If she’s only trying to persuade me to take up with her again, then the same applies.”

“If the cardinal really does know of her past, I wouldn’t want to be in her shoes.”

“I would help her leave Paris, even now. But if she stays, she will have to dance to his tune, even though she claims she doesn’t want to harm us.”

“I’ll pray for her regardless. If she was once good and kind, then circumstances have turned her from the true path. I will ask God to guide her back.”

Athos felt Aramis may as well pray for a goat to become a warhorse, but he said nothing. A man’s faith was his own business. And Anne’s path was hers alone now.


	9. Chapter 9

A week later, the four of them were tasked with escorting the queen on her annual visit to Bourbon-Les-Eaux, a spring famed for its powers of fertility. Athos had carried out this duty every year since he joined the regiment, so he knew exactly what to expect. Aramis would be effusive and poetic about the joys of nature for the first one or two days, then torture the rest of them by complaining about how much he loathed nature and wanted to be back in Paris for the remaining time. Porthos said it was a carryover from the Savoy massacre, and indulged the childish whining. Athos tolerated it so long as it didn’t interfere with his reading.

But this year they had a new amusement—a newly minted Musketeer in a shiny new pauldron which just begged to be dirtied and scuffed up, like its owner. Porthos took an unholy amount of glee in sparring with d’Artagnan, tossing him to the ground, and dragging him around. Athos was of course quite above such nonsense.

Normally.

But d’Artagnan was a different matter, so Athos joined in the attack, taking every opportunity to slash and mark the pauldron, much to d’Artagnan’s disgust. Naturally the more he complained, the harder they pressed him, but no matter how thoroughly they trounced him, the lad bounced back. D’Artagnan was such a perfect example of the best Musketeer tradition, that Athos became quite emotional thinking about it.

Which didn’t stop him beating the snot out of the boy with Porthos’s help, because it was strengthening. And fun.

In the evenings they kept watch in shifts, but it was easy duty, even with Aramis’s grumbling. Porthos dealt with it by wrapping his friend in his arms and lying with him on their bedrolls until Aramis fell asleep. Aramis didn't like to sleep alone and in the open air, would not sleep at all without someone holding him. Athos had gladly performed the duty many times, but there was no doubt that Porthos was Aramis’s preferred companion in these situations.

“They look so peaceful,” d’Artagnan said quietly, looking over at them across the fire.

“Better they sleep together than with me. They’re not peaceful when sharing with others.”

“Sometimes they behave more like married people than most husbands and wives do. They like each other better.”

Athos nodded, thinking of his own marriage. “You find many friendships like that, forged on the battlefield. There’s nothing like a man saving your life under fire to prove his value as a companion.”

“If we could marry our best friends, life would be much more satisfying, don’t you think?”

“Not if you want children.”

“There are many orphans needing a family.”

“God and the church does not look favourably on men who prefer others of their gender, d’Artagnan.”

“Aramis tells me that even men and women do many things together that the Church calls mortal sins.”

 _And even enjoy them_ , Athos thought. “This is true.”

“Do you think them sinful?”

Athos had had a lot of time to consider this, for one reason or another. “I only ask, whom does it harm, and whom does it dishonour? If it does neither, and everyone agrees, I have no reason to censure anyone for what they do in private. God made men the way they are, with the desires and inclinations they have. It seems illogical that he would object to what he himself created.”

“But he makes murderers and thieves too.”

“Those cause harm, and no innocent agrees to be murdered or stolen from.”

“I think many priests would disagree with you.”

“I’m sure. Though not all,” Athos said, thinking of Father Duchamp at La Fère, and his unusual and surprising liberality.

“So if Aramis and Porthos were so inclined, you would not turn from them.”

Athos raised his eyebrows. “I’m surprised you have to ask, d’Artagnan. For all I know they are. I would sooner cut off my own arm than disown one of them for anything, let alone for what they like to do in bed.”

D’Artagnan fell quiet after that. He must have seen or heard something at the garrison since coming to live there, and was sounding Athos out before mentioning it. Athos could wait until he did. He wished he was as sure of d’Artagnan’s tolerance of such practices and relationships as he was of his own. However, so long as the boy caused no trouble by raising it, Athos could see no harm in his privately disapproving of one of his brothers.

At midnight he roused Aramis, who woke Porthos, then Athos and d’Artagnan could curl up to sleep on their own bedrolls. As d’Artagnan settled in as a warm tight bundle against Athos’s back, Athos wondered what it would be like to have him in his arms. To even have him as a lover. Athos had given the matter much thought, and knew now that his feelings for d’Artagnan’s embraces, his reactions to his kisses of friendship, were not aberrant but tied to his love of d’Artagnan as a brother Musketeer. He no longer recoiled from the idea, but he would not ever reveal it to the boy. It was simply a private part of his heart, neither to be encouraged or rejected. Athos could look at it from time to time without shame, as he looked at his early relationship with Anne. At least d’Artagnan would never betray him or his own principles as Anne had done.

Perhaps a man _would_ be happier if he could marry his male friends. It would be so much simpler, at least for him.

They were granted two days of peace, then the queen’s idyll was abruptly and violently destroyed by gunmen trying to kill her. One of her ladies-in-waiting died and the Musketeers had to abandon the others, since saving the queen was more important than saving her maids. The woman would, with luck, be there to be retrieved once the queen was out of danger.

Against Porthos’s objections, Athos chose to try to outrun their assailants, but the men were relentless, and greatly out numbered them. As they drew close to the nunnery associated with the spring at Bourbon-Les-Eaux, Athos reluctantly made the decision to split up, sending Porthos and d’Artagnan back to Paris for reinforcements while he and Aramis took the queen behind the reinforced walls with the nuns.

The nunnery was graced by a mother superior of exceptional common sense and bloodthirstiness, but after meeting with the head of the gunman under the cover of a flag of truce, Athos realised they would need more than a smart, brave woman to help them keep the queen safe, let alone the nuns and themselves.

Fortunately the nuns were far from helpless, and though Athos and Aramis spent a frantic day firing at any target that presented himself, the mother superior was—no pun intended—a godsend, while Sister Hélène kept the gunmen busy with flaming bottles of brandy and beehives.

But at dusk, their attackers managed to breach the cellar, and Sister Hélène died at the hands of two intruders, who were killed in turn. The nuns grieved deeply, and Aramis too was strangely affected by the death of the young woman. There was no time to ask him about it as they had to repair the damage to the cellar and get the queen as far away from points of attack as possible. Aramis took himself off for a while, and returned to keep watch over the queen outside her bedroom while Athos patrolled the rest of the exposed side of the nunnery.

All night the attackers hammered, so even if Athos had planned to sleep, there was no chance of doing so. At first light, he came to find Aramis and check on the queen.

He wished he had waited just a few more minutes to do so. Anything to have avoided the knowledge that his best friend was an idiot and a traitor. How could Aramis have been so reckless and stupid as to sleep with the queen? Athos was so angry that he came closer to shooting one of his own men than he had in the past six years, and that was saying a lot considering how irritating some of the Musketeers could be. And the only consolation Aramis could offer is that they were all likely to die before they could be hanged for treason.

The previous morning, the worst concern on Athos’s mind was that he was harbouring inappropriate feelings for one of his inferiors. That afternoon, he worried that the queen might die on his watch. But now he had to consider that he might hang, Aramis might hang, and the Queen herself might be executed because Aramis could not control his overweening sexual urges. Compared to all that, being a potential sodomite was nothing.

It was thus a relief when their enemy began their assault and Athos could concentrate on the immediate risk of death, rather than on a dishonourable one in the future. He truly thought they had all met their end when, trapped in an underground room with only one exit and two pistol balls, there seemed to be no way out. But no, the fates had other plans for them. Treville, just in time to save them, arrived along with d’Artagnan and Porthos.

And Serge. The logic of bringing a ragtag collection of superannuated Musketeers and stable boys with them to bolster their numbers escaped Athos, but the captain was convinced it had been necessary. Athos wished it hadn’t been necessary to shoot Gallagher, the gunmen’s leader, because it was little more than suicide by the other man, but he’d had to, and that was all there was to it.

After the way it had started, Athos didn’t believe this day could become any more appalling. But he was proved wrong yet again. Aramis pulled a box from the dead Gallagher’s saddlebags, one which should have held enough gold to help the nunnery make good the damage inflicted by the attack. It was empty save for a few coins, none of them gold. But the box itself was another bomb thrown into Athos’s life—for it belonged to Anne. And that meant that she had hired Gallagher, almost certainly at the cardinal’s order.

“It’s Milady’s,” he told the others. “The cardinal has just tried to murder our queen.”


	10. Chapter 10

Despite their weariness, they met in the captain’s office, where Treville led a council of war. “We cannot allow Milady or the cardinal to threaten the lives of the royal couple. To attack us is one thing, to lay hands on her majesty is quite another.”

“We could arrest her,” d’Artagnan said.

“Not while she works for the cardinal,” Aramis said.

Athos shook his head. “He would disown her and kill her while in custody. Remember that Red Guard, Dujon, who gave a statement against Gaudet, leading to my exoneration? Anne said Richelieu murdered him lest the finger of suspicion move from Gaudet to the cardinal himself.”

“I say kill her, and tell the king about the cardinal,” Porthos said.

“The king would not believe a word of it, and Milady would be blamed for everything,” Treville said. “No, this requires a clever plan. A subtle one.”

“Anne sent me a note after I confronted her last week.” Everyone turned to look at Athos. “She gave d’Artagnan the entry fee for the contest, and made sure to encounter him afterwards. I perceived a threat to him particularly, us in general, and told her that if she made a move, there would be consequences.”

“So like I said, kill her.”

Athos raised his hand. “Wait. Her note said that I was wrong, that she had no intention of harming any of us—”

Porthos snorted. “Yeah, right.”

“And that the cardinal now knew of her past, and was using that to blackmail her into doing whatever he wanted. It’s _possible_ that hiring Gallagher was one such forced crime.”

“You believe her?” d’Artagnan said.

“I really can’t tell any more. Sir, _if_ it’s true, is there some way we can exploit the connection? Say if we could keep her out of the cardinal’s grasp while gaining undeniable proof of his involvement?”

“What proof would be undeniable?” Aramis asked. “A confession? From _Richelieu_?”

“A confession heard by an unimpeachable witness, like one of the councillors.”

“Or the queen,” Treville said slowly. “She knows the truth, after all. I believe she would help bring him down, if his ambition has grown this much of a threat.”

“But how do we keep Milady out of his grasp while still using her as a threat?” d’Artagnan asked.

Athos had a sudden inspiration, and smiled. “Porthos is right. We kill her.”

**********************

As Treville said, the plan had to be clever _and_ subtle, and since it was being carried out under the cardinal’s nose, done with complete secrecy. Only eight people would know what was to happen, and five of them had been in Treville’s office that day. Athos was charged with sending Anne a note asking her to come to the garrison _incognito,_ and that when she was ready, Aramis would escort her.

It was two days before Athos had an answer, then Aramis went to Anne’s address that evening, bringing her back dressed in men’s clothing, her face hidden by a hood. Once safely inside the captain’s office, she pulled back her cloak and faced five hostile men. “Is this to be an execution?”

“Sit down, Milady,” Treville said. D’Artagnan brought a chair out for her and she said in it gracefully, not meeting Athos’s eyes. “We're brought you here because we know you paid Gallagher to kill her majesty.”

She stiffened and Athos saw her about to deny the captain’s charge. “Don’t bother lying,” he said. He produced the box found in Gallagher’s saddle. “I know this is yours, because I gave it to you.” D’Artagnan shot him a look. Athos hadn’t mentioned that small detail before. It hadn’t been relevant.

“I did it on the cardinal’s orders. He made me do it, or he would have me hanged as a murderer.”

“All you deserve,” Porthos muttered. She didn’t grace that with a reaction.

“We know,” Aramis said. “We also know you probably would have done it without coercion.”

“No. Not the queen. God, you really believe I’m a monster.”

“You forget we know you are,” Athos said. “However, if you cooperate with us, you have a chance to escape this life, start afresh, and hopefully find a way to live that befitting the woman I knew once, but no longer recognise.”

“And how is this miracle to occur, _monsieur le comte_?”

“We’re going to kill you in broad daylight, and then your killer will be released from custody in exchange for proof of the cardinal’s involvement. Proof you are going to provide.”

She clutched her throat. “So you mean to kill me after all.”

“It’s only fitting, don’t you think?”

Aramis frowned at Athos. “Do you want her to cooperate or not?”

Treville cleared his throat. “Gentlemen. Milady, we’re talking about pretence, not reality. But it has to be convincing. And you have to disappear afterwards for it to work, and for you to remain safe from the cardinal’s vengeance.”

“How do you imagine you can arrange that, captain? There is nowhere in France his claws don’t reach.”

“Only if they’re still attached to his hands,” Aramis said.

She gave him a curious glance, then looked back at Treville. “Very well. Tell me the plan.”

“No. You have to agree to it first.”

“And if I did and then decided it would serve my interests to tell the cardinal what you’re up to, how would you stop me, captain?”

Porthos looked at Athos. “She has a point.”

Athos leaned on the table towards her. “Anne, this is your best chance to get away from him. Or do you want to live under his thumb until he tires of you and has you killed?”

“No. I was simply pointing out that unless we trust each other, this is a stupid conversation.”

“Do you? Trust us?”

“I trust _you_. Your friends, not so much. But you don’t trust me, do you, Athos?”

“I trust your instinct for preservation.” He looked up at Treville. “She’s right, unfortunately.”

“Very well. But even the slightest hint you will betray us and I _will_ let Porthos kill you. You more than deserve it, and since we can’t bring you to trial, the king’s justice will be carried out by the Musketeers.”

Anne rolled her eyes. “Justice is a word that has no meaning in this world. Not to the poor, not to Protestants, not to anyone who gets in the cardinal’s way.”

“You mean like Ninon de Larroque,” d’Artagnan muttered.

“Exactly. So don’t prate at me, gentlemen. And don’t treat me like a fool.”

It took ten days to prepare. Anne had to smuggle out her precious possessions and her gold to a secure place, and Athos had to arrange for passage to New France, which was deemed the best and safest place for her to escape to. Athos and d’Artagnan would escort her secretly to Le Havre to board the ship.

The most difficult part of the plan for Athos to contemplate was that he would have to actually shoot d’Artagnan. “I am not the marksman you are,” he confessed to Aramis. “What if I miss and kill him?”

“You won’t. But a little practice between now and then won’t hurt, would it? Shall I join you”

Athos readily accepted, as he hoped that practice might give him a chance to learn what was bothering his friend, beside the obvious threat of his actions at the nunnery being discovered. Athos doubted that Aramis was dwelling overmuch on that, since he had never known the man to fret about consequences in any of his affairs. Athos had often wished he _would_. So whatever weighed on Aramis’s mind was something else.

They spent a hour firing pistols at targets, before Aramis suggested they had a short spar with swords to give them a break. Athos enjoyed sparring with Aramis because of all the Musketeers, the man was the closest in skill to him, adding an entertaining flourish to all his moves which in a true battle was often enough to bewilder his attacker and win Aramis the fight. Although that didn’t work with Athos, he liked to see what Aramis would come up with in response to Athos’s sparer, classical moves, if for nothing else than to see Aramis misjudge occasionally and end up on his arse.

After Athos had achieved this for the fifth time, Aramis called for mercy. “I need a drink and a rest, my friend. I’m not as young as I used to be.”

“If only you were as child-like as your judgement,” Athos said. “You would have more energy than d’Artagnan.”

Aramis lifted a sceptical eyebrow. “ _No one_ has more energy than that boy. I’ve seen one year old colts with more placid and lazy natures.”

Athos grinned at the truth of that observation. As it was close to midday, Serge provided food and water in the mess, though most of the other Musketeers had not turned up to eat. “You seem less troubled today,” Athos said, investigating the stew. The meat was unrecognisable.

“Do I? I wasn’t aware I looked out of sorts.”

“Aramis.”

“All right. Something happened at the nunnery—”

“Aramis!” Athos hissed.

“Not that,” his friend said quietly. “No, the nun who was killed. Sister Hélène. I knew her a long time ago as Isabelle. The first love of my life.”

Athos put his hand on Aramis’s shoulder. “I hadn’t realised. I’m sorry, my friend.”

“I didn’t mean you to. If she hadn’t died, I might have gone back to...resolve a few things with her. Now I can’t.”

“How old were you?”

“Sixteen. She fell pregnant and we were to marry, but she lost the baby. Then her father took her away and I never saw her again until the day we arrived at the nunnery. I didn’t even recognise her at first.”

“But she knew you.”

“Instantly. Foolishly I thought that meant she was still in love with me, as I have always been with her. But it was not the case. She wanted to become a nun, she said. Said I never really wanted to marry her at all, only I had been forced to.” Aramis bowed his head. “She was wrong. I wanted her, I wanted children.”

“You also wanted to become a monk, and you relish being a soldier. These things are hardly compatible.”

“You never wanted a family, Athos? Had you married Anne instead of Catherine, would you be a Musketeer?”

“No. But the fates take a hand and we have to go with what they give us.”

“You mean God, and yes. I gave up that dream, and pursued another calling. But had she stayed, borne our child, I would have lived with her happily.”

“One woman for life, Aramis?”

“A woman I truly loved, Athos. Now God has seen fit to grant my wish to find another I could love as much as I did Isabelle. Only...she’s already married.”

Athos looked a warning at Aramis, though no one was close enough to hear. “You must forget her. It never happened, and nothing is to be said.”

“You will forget Anne when she leaves, no doubt. It’s so easy to do, after all.”

Athos was Aramis’s superior with a sword, but with words, Aramis would always be the master, able to wound so precisely that the victim only realised they were dying when they saw the blood. “She chose her path. I could not stop her, though I tried. As did Isabelle, from the sound of it. At least she didn’t become a murderer and a liar.”

“No.” Aramis heaved a sigh. “I suppose the lesson from all this is to seize your happiness while you can, for it may be taken from you in an instant.”

“You sound like d’Artagnan. He is very determined that I be happy, whether I deserve it or not.”

“You do deserve it, Athos. Most people do.” His expression became quizzical. “When have you had cause to discuss this? I haven’t seen you sitting with him to talk about life’s purpose.”

“Only because you’re usually too busy with your own dissertations on the subject of pleasure. Now, finish up. I want to be the best marksman in Paris before the day is out.”

Although his aim improved a small amount, it didn’t erase Athos’s anxiety. He considered putting no ball in his pistol, as d’Artagnan would be doing, but the argument for loading the weapon was that real blood on one of the participants would give the whole thing verisimilitude. D’Artagnan declared he wasn’t worried at all, putting a touching and possibly unjustified faith in Athos’s ability.

The night arrived to enact their drama. It had to take place where the Red Guards would see it, so they had chosen a square near a tavern the guards preferred. Anne and Athos stood in the shadows near the tavern and waited.

“You’re trembling,” she whispered.

“You think this is easy?”

“It’s all a game, so you say. Athos—”

“Be quiet, he’s coming.”

D’Artagnan walked along with Aramis, Porthos and Treville behind him. “There! There he is. I told you he was talking to the cardinal’s spy. Athos, you traitor!”

Athos moved away from the shadows, into the light of the street torches. “You, boy? Over her? You’re an idiot.”

Treville spoke. “Athos, step away from her. My orders were to keep away from that woman.”

“She’s my mistress, captain. You have no authority to tell me who to love.”

“You’re sleeping with our enemy!” D’Artagnan’s yelling brought Red Guards out of the tavern to watch the spectacle of Musketeers fighting amongst themselves. “You’ve betrayed us!”

“Calm down,” Aramis said. “Athos is senior to you—”

“I don’t care. She tried to have me hanged for murder. She tried to have _Athos_ executed. She’s a convicted murderer and under sentence of death. Good God, man, aren’t you disgusted? Get away from her. She needs shooting.”

Athos moved in front of Anne. “Shoot her, and I’ll kill you. I will fight for her honour before I’d let you touch her.”

“Duelling’s illegal,” Treville said, in case the guards were too stupid to realise that they had a wonderful opportunity to arrest Athos.

“Go ahead. I’m not afraid of you.”

D’Artagnan raised his pistol. Anne ran in front of Athos. “D’Artagnan, no!”

He fired and she fell to the ground. Athos quickly burst the bladder of pig’s blood he’d concealed in his sleeve so it spilled onto her stomach, then raised his pistol in his bloodied hand.

“Murderer! I’ll kill you for this.” He fired his weapon. D’Artagnan fell clutching his chest, Aramis rushing to his side to check on him. Athos was supposed to hit him in the arm. He’d missed. _Dear God, no._ Athos made to run to his friend, but two Red Guards pushed in front of him, seizing him by his arms.

“Duelling’s against the law, Musketeer. You’re under arrest.”

Athos pretended to struggle. “But he killed her. He killed Milady.”

“I didn’t see anyone killed,” the captain of the guards said, sneering. “Take him to the Chatelet.”

His part done, Athos had nothing left to do but be a prisoner, the excuse for a deal to be struck with the cardinal. But he had no idea how badly injured d’Artagnan was, and prayed Aramis would visit sooner rather than later to tell him.

His guards took delight in manhandling him, stripping him of his weapons in the roughest way, throwing him into walls and against the cell bars, but he’d expected all that from his previous experiences. He did not expect to sleep there, not that he had any hope of doing so with the memories it evoked.

This was the hardest part of the plan now, waiting, being unable to do anything to further it. Porthos and the captain were supposed to carry Anne’s ‘corpse’ to Poupart who had been bribed into silence—not that he needed much once Treville had told him the purpose of their plan. Aramis was to visit Athos in the prison and ‘learn’ of secret evidence that Athos had heard of through his mistress. Aramis and Treville would then make a deal with the cardinal, exchanging Athos for that evidence.

But if d’Artagnan was dangerously hurt, Aramis might not be able to leave him.

Hours passed, and Athos gnawed on his worries. Aramis should have come by now. _Someone_ should have come.

He was drifting in that unpleasant way where one roused every few moments in fright or expectation, when he heard heavy footsteps and locks being opened. He sat up. “Someone to see you, Musketeer.” Amazing how the guards could make the word sound like an blasphemy.

It wasn’t Aramis, but Porthos. He knelt beside the bars. “Does he live?” Athos whispered, his voice rough with fear.

Porthos kept his voice quiet as well. “Yeah, he’s all right. You grazed his side. Hurts like hell, but Aramis cleaned it and says he’ll be fine.”

Athos slumped. “Thank God.”

“Mind you, the pup’s a bit cranky with you over it. He thought you would hit his arm, no problem. Aramis explained that in the dark and at that distance, aim is very difficult. You weren’t drinking beforehand, were you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Athos wiped his face. “And Anne?” he whispered.

“All squared away. You doing all right? Your face is bruised.”

“Just the normal amount of grudge settling. When is the captain going to speak to the cardinal?”

“First thing.”

“Make sure d’Artagnan doesn’t go with you. He’s supposed to hate me now, remember?”

“Yeah.” Porthos chuckled. “He’s good, but he’s not _that_ good as an actor. I think you could put a musket ball in his gut and he’d die convinced you were the best man in the world.”

“Hero worship.”

“Yeah. He’ll get over it.” Athos raised an eyebrow. “No one’s as perfect as he thinks you are, Athos.”

“Of course not. Have we conversed long enough, do you think?”

Porthos glanced back at the guard. “Yeah.” He stood. “Get some rest, Athos,” he said in a normal voice. “We’ll get you out of here.”

“No chance of that, Musketeer,” the guard said. “He’ll swing before tomorrow night.”

“Shut your mouth,” Porthos said, raising a fist. “That’s my friend you’re talking about.”

“Then I hope you said your goodbyes. Hop it. You’ve had your visit.”

Porthos glanced back, gave Athos a quick smile, then stalked past the guard, sneering as he went. D’Artagnan might not be much of an actor, but Porthos could be when he wanted to.

He spent the rest of the night in the same unrestful, waking doze. There was a chance, not a small one either, that their gambit would fail and he really would be hanged tomorrow. But he had gone into so many fights with the odds seemingly against him, and come out victorious nonetheless, that he refused to fret about that possibility. So long as d’Artagnan and Anne—for he didn’t want her to die, whatever she’d become—were safe, then he had done his best. The captain had never let him down before, and betting on the cardinal’s supreme self-interest was never likely to fail either.

As best he could tell, it was noon the next day when he was hauled out of the cell and marched to a cart, then taken to the palace, to the cardinal’s private chapel. Richelieu was there with his guards, but so were Porthos, and Aramis. “Well? There is your Athos. Hand over your evidence.”

Athos was behind the cardinal, so was perfectly placed to watch his friends toy with the man. Aramis stepped forward with a letter in his hand, but Porthos snatched it from the cardinal’s grasp. “You'd murder the Queen, just to see one of your favourites on the throne? Haven't you got enough power already?

Richelieu looked at Porthos like he was simple. “This was never about power.” He reached for the letter but Aramis knocked his hand away.

“Of course it was,” Aramis said. “You simply wanted your own puppet at the King's right hand.”

“You understand nothing.”

Porthos again frustrated the cardinal’s grab for the letter. Athos bit his lip. He was far too close to laughing out loud at their theatrics. He’d seen many of their interrogations but never with such a powerful victim. “Why don't you explain it to us, then?”

Aramis took the letter from Porthos. “He can't speak because he's too ashamed.” Porthos laughed as Richelieu walked away.

Athos thought he might not answer, which would mean their plan had failed. But the cardinal was not also self-centred, he was also, at heart, as dramatic and attention-seeking as any actor on any stage in Paris. He _needed_ approval for his genius.

“The Queen is barren. If the King dies without an heir, France will be plunged back into civil war. Is one woman's life worth sacrificing to avoid such a catastrophe? I think it is. I ordered her death because I alone will face the truths that no-one else can stomach.” He snatched the letter from Aramis’s unresisting grasp and turned away to read it.

As the cardinal broke the seal and discovered the paper was quite blank, Athos could not completely stifle a tiny chuckle at Richelieu’s expression. _Got you._

The man still didn’t get it, sneering that his confession meant nothing without a credible witness, and the king would never believe a lowly Musketeer. Athos couldn’t see his face as the Queen and Captain Treville emerged from their hiding place—where they had heard every damning word that had emerged from Richelieu’s evil mouth—but he could judge how satisfying it was from the faces of his friends who _could_ see it.

Athos had never seen anyone bow as low as the cardinal did then. The man was finished, and the Queen safe from his machinations, hopefully forever. She delivered a warning so dignified, so utterly damning, that Athos would have applauded if his hands had not been bound.

When she was done, her majesty caught Athos’s grin. “Unchain that man, and release him. Athos is one of my loyal Musketeers, as are all these men. Do not dare to lay hands on them again.”

She turned and swept out. Athos held out his hands to his captors. “You heard her majesty.”

The guard seemed ready to ignore the royal command, but Aramis stepped forward, his hand on his pistol, and the man quickly changed his mind. Athos pushed past the cardinal to embrace his brothers. “Well done,” he murmured against their ears. “Thank you.”

“You’ve had your little joke, Musketeers. Now leave.”

Aramis tipped his hat politely at the angry cardinal, and the three of them sauntered outside, where Athos heaved in a lungful of clean air. Aramis cocked his head. “And I think there’s someone else who needs to see you.”

D’Artagnan ran to them from where he’d been standing out of sight. “Athos!”

Athos went to embrace him, but the boy pulled away. “Watch it. Wounded, remember?”

“Sorry about that. But a shot to the side is much more convincing, don’t you think?”

“You can’t tell me you meant to shoot him there,” Aramis said.

“No, I didn’t.” He put his arms around d’Artagnan a little more carefully. “I hope it’s not too painful.”

“I’ll live. Did we win?”

“We won.”

D’Artagnan grinned and hugged Athos hard, unconcerned about the pressure on his injury.

“This calls for a drink,” Porthos said.

“Eventually. This isn’t over,” Athos reminded him.

“You can spare a day and night to recover,” Aramis said, looking him over. “Have you had any sleep at all?”

“Not a scrap of it. Anne?”

“Safe. She can stay hidden for another day. Porthos will ride with you to Le Havre.”

“No. I want to do it.” The three of them looked at d’Artagnan. “I’ll be fine. I’ve had worse and ridden harder.”

“Yes, but it’s not necessary,” Athos said.

“I want to. Please?”

Athos shook his head. “If you insist. But now, I want something to eat, something to drink, my weapons, and clean clothes. And a wash.”

Aramis laughed. “Now you mention it, you _are_ a little ripe.”

“You spend a night in the Chatelet and see how you smell, my friend.”

Porthos and Aramis went in search of the captain and Athos’s weapons. D’Artagnan led Athos to his horse. “You can ride. I’ll walk.”

“Room for two, surely.” So d’Artagnan climbed into the saddle, wincing at the pull on his bullet wound, and Athos climbed up in front. He was grateful for the lift, and d’Artagnan’s body against his back. He was a living reminder of their victory, and a balm on Athos’s scattered aches and worries.

“Which is more pressing, food or clean clothes?”

Athos didn’t have to think. “Food.”

Never had Serge’s anonymous stews tasted so good, or the cheap watered wine so refreshing. D’Artagnan, watching Athos eat, grinned at him. “I know how you feel.”

“At least I only went less than a day without eating. You had to endure two days of it.”

“Yes.” D’Artagnan raised a finger to touch Athos’s cheek. “You have bruises.”

“I’m sure you remember the gentle, tender demeanour of the kindly souls who guard the prisoners in the Chatelet.”

D’Artagnan laughed, then held his sore ribs. “I do. I thought they would treat you with more respect.”

“As I’ve had years to build up animosity among the kind of men who eventually become guards at that establishment, no, they did not.” He finished his meal, drank his wine, then put his cup down. “Now, to cleanse the stench from my being.”

He collected a bucket of hot water from the kitchen, and took it to his room. D’Artagnan went with him, apparently unwilling to let his friend out of his sight for now. Athos stripped, casting aside his leathers with pleasure, and tossing shirt and small clothes in the corner to be sent to the laundry. He poured some of the water into a basin and began to clean himself with a cloth and soap.

D’Artagnan went quiet. Athos, tired as he was and no lover of chatter without purpose, was content with this as he washed, his back to the lad. When he was done, he pulled on small clothes and a clean shirt from the dresser. He turned, and found d’Artagnan watching him with wide eyes. “Something amiss?” Athos asked.

“No. You have so many scars.”

“You’ve seen them before.”

“Not...I mean, usually just in passing. I never counted them.”

“All swordsmen carry scars. You have one or two of your own, not counting what your friend gave you yesterday.”

D’Artagnan put his hand over the place where he’d been injured. “Yes. Athos....”

Athos waited, but nothing more emerged from the lad’s mouth. “Yes?”

“Um, do you remember when we were watching the queen? Before the attack? You said that you would never disown Aramis or Porthos for anything. Did you mean me as well?”

“Of course.” He sat on his chair and picked up his doublet. He used the cloth to wipe it down a little, to remove some of the stink from the prison. “Why, have you done something appalling you think I might cast you aside for?”

“No. Not yet. It’s just...Milady. You love her, or you did, but she went too far for you.”

Athos scowled. “You know what she did. Even if one excuses what she did to Ninon, which I don’t, she has murdered many people, and tried to have the queen assassinated. Those are unforgiveable.”

“Because she hurt other people.”

“Yes. What’s this about?”

D’Artagnan bit his lip. “So if I did something that didn’t hurt anyone else...but maybe offended you, you could forgive me?”

“Obviously I have made you uncertain on this point, so let me be clear. You are my brother, dearer to me than my real one ever was. I would lay down my life for you, as I would for Aramis or Porthos or the captain, or any of the other men of this regiment. To turn against you would be to turn against myself, and hurt as deeply. Now, do you understand?” His voice softened. “Why are you so troubled, my friend?”

He set his doublet aside and walked over to face d’Artagnan. “There is nothing I can imagine you doing that would offend me, let alone make me reject you.”

D’Artagnan stood and stared into Athos’s eyes. Athos could not read him at all, and wondered if the lad was going through a medical crisis, for all that he seemed hale and sane.

Then d’Artagnan leaned in and kissed him. Not on the cheeks as before, but on the lips, quickly, shyly, before he jerked back and stared again at Athos, this time in fear.

“Is this the terrible crime you think I will cast you off for?” Athos asked quietly. He held out his hands, inviting d’Artagnan into his arms. D’Artagnan almost leapt into his embrace, and clung to him, trembling with emotion. Athos put his hand on the back of d’Artagnan’s head. “How long have you tortured yourself over this?”

“Too long. I convinced myself that I only wanted Constance, but I wanted you too. Athos, forgive me.”

“Nothing to forgive. I too...have wished for more than mere friendship.” He petted his friend’s hair. “Is this why you wanted to ride to Le Havre with me.?”

“Yes. I wanted...I thought we could...Athos, do you truly not hate me for this?”

“You think me so blessed with affection that I would turn away someone offering it so generously? You have always been kind to me. More than I deserve.”

D’Artagnan pulled back and kissed him again, this time more enthusiastically. He tangled his hands in Athos’s hair and claimed his mouth. Athos found it strange at first, the feel of stubble, the harder muscles of a man, but then the difference didn’t matter, and he kissed back just as hungrily. D’Artagnan’s hands found their way under Athos’s shirt and Athos shivered as those calloused fingers and hard palms skittered over his skin, seeking and stroking and teasing.

Athos didn’t know where this was going, but he didn't had a chance to find out. A loud knocking at his door made them spring apart guiltily. “Yes?” Athos called.

It was Aramis. “The captain wants to speak with you. He has your weapons too.”

“Thank you. I’ll be there shortly.”

“We’ll be in the mess. See you there.”

Athos waited until he was sure Aramis had gone, then smiled at d’Artagnan. “I think this has to wait until we’re on our way to Le Havre.”

“I thought you would be disgusted with me.”

“And you were wrong.” He leaned in and kissed d’Artagnan on the cheek. “Now, stop worrying about me, and go find the others. I’ll join you soon.”

“I love you, Athos. You know that, don’t you?”

Athos held his hands. “And I you, d’Artagnan. Whether as a brother or a lover, I don’t care. But go now. We must rest tonight. Alone, unfortunately.”

D’Artagnan’s eyes widened. “You’re not shocked at all, are you?”

“Surprised somewhat, but not shocked. Or horrified. And I do know something of what men do together.” He lifted a hand and stroked d’Artagnan’s cheek with the back of his hand. “Now, try not to look so guilty. Aramis will know in a moment what you are about.”

“Oh God, what will they think of me?”

Athos smiled. “If their regard for you lessened in the smallest way, I _would_ be shocked then, and disappointed. But it won’t.” He kissed d’Artagnan again. “Go. I have to see the captain.”

D’Artagnan gave him the briefest smile, then left in a rush. Athos quickly finished dressing and walked across the yard, feeling lighter in heart than he had in weeks. Months, perhaps.

“You’re looking remarkably cheerful,” Treville said after Athos entered his office.

“It’s not every day one sees the cardinal brought down. You wanted to see me?”

Treville nodded over to the screen which hid his bed. “Your weapons and coin are there. Are you ready to ride to Le Havre tomorrow?”

“Yes, and d’Artagnan insists he’ll be ready too. Was there something else?”

“Milady has decided she no longer wishes to sail to New France.”

“What? She has to leave this country. She knows there is nowhere to hide from Richelieu here.”

“Agreed. But she has heard more of the conditions in the Americas and considers she would be too different from the colonists for safety. She believes she would have to work as a whore to survive.”

“She does that here,” Athos said, shaking his head at Anne’s sudden fastidiousness, or whatever it was. “So where does she want to go?”

“England. Not London, further south.”

“But she’s....” Athos gave up. “If she wishes to run the risk of being discovered and run out of the country again, so be it. She can no longer be my concern.”

“I hope you’ll make it clear to her that it won’t just be the cardinal after her blood if she returns. She’s no friend to any of us.”

“Anne doesn’t have to be liked. Only desired. If she wants to return, she will. I do not control her. I doubt I could if I tried.”

“A lucky escape if you ask me.” Athos looked at him in confusion. “That you didn’t marry her.”

Athos regarded his captain, and thought this was not the time to discuss how much better his life—and hers—would have been if he had married her. “Was there anything else?”

“No. If you’re not fit to ride tomorrow, leave it until the next day. I won’t have you or d’Artagnan wrecking your fitness to serve over that woman.”

“No, captain.”

“Good work, by the way.”

“We all played our part. Even the cardinal.”

The captain smiled and nodded. “In some ways, Richelieu can be utterly reliable." Athos turned to go. "Are you quite sure you're done with her? You've known her so long."

"Completely sure. She is of my past, not my future."

D'Artagnan was his future. Athos would travel with him towards it with joy in his heart.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos, comments, corrections, and criticisms all welcome.
> 
> Oh yeah, more coming :) Lots more.


End file.
